


The World Ends Without You

by maccom



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Angst and Feels, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Female Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Heavy Angst, Mental Health Issues, Named Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Slow Burn, Spoilers, chapter 12 is smut, post-5.0, some Canon Dialogue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-09-07
Packaged: 2020-09-02 08:54:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 14
Words: 24,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20273269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maccom/pseuds/maccom
Summary: The Warrior of Light returns to the First searching for answers and hoping for a distraction. She has no idea she's being watched.





	1. Chapter 1

The Manager of Suites at the Pendants does not hide his surprise well. He fumbles his papers, trying to buy himself time, but his face is flushed, his eyes wide. His recovery is not seamless. “We did not expect you to return so soon, madam,” he says, attempting to put his desk in order and bow simultaneously. “The Exarch had said you’d returned home for the foreseeable future.”

Mordant smiles, a crooked half-smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Unexpected business brought me back. I don’t believe I’ll be here long.”

“We’re happy to have you for any time at all,” he says, emotion colouring his voice. His earnesty unnerves her; it’s all she can do to meet his gaze. “You are here for the night, I presume? Your room is available if so.”

“That would be perfect.” She’d hoped that would be the case, though nerves coil her stomach. She hasn’t been back to the Pendants since…

He bows as she leaves, face still flushed from seeing her, but she’s already turning away, thoughts twisting and winding down other paths.

The Crystarium is bustling with people, regardless of the late hour. Night is still new, still wondrous to behold; people gather in groups to sit and gaze wide-eyed at the sparkling canopy.

She’s grateful most won’t look her way, let alone recognize her. She is merely one more late-night wanderer in the crowd.

She hadn’t been much in the mood for people even back on the Source. Since returning home she’d spent the majority of her time in her cottage in Shirogane, walking the halls, turning over old mementos and crafted belongings, letting her thoughts drift. Ardbert had said men always turned to the stories and secrets of yesteryear, but Mordant had found herself drawn to her own past: her own stories, glorified as they may be to the public, and her own secrets. Secrets it seems even she is unaware of…

_ In our time, the two of you were one. _

She enters her room in the Pendants; it’s a relief to see it unchanged from her last stay. She moves to the window, throws wide the shutters and stares up at the sky. Voices from below drift upwards, distant happy murmurs from a city marveling at stars. The breeze is cooling as it fills the room with the scent of rain-to-come; she can see clouds gathering on the horizon.

_ The truth is, you fight for whoever bloody well tells you to. Can you not see you’re being used?! _

She crosses her arms, rests a shoulder against the window frame, tries to block Ilberd’s voice from her mind. She’d had a choice, hadn’t she? She’d stepped into each battlefield of her own volition. She could have said no, walked away, told them she didn’t have it in her to put another being to her blade.

But she always did, didn’t she? She is already ready for more bloodshed.

_ Wipe the slate clean. Forgive and forget. Convince yourselves that she can be controlled...the Warrior of Light! Our Weapon of Light! _

Fray. Or - herself, really. Her memories of that time are hazy. The betrayal in Ul’dah, followed by the Dragonsong War and the loss of Haurchefaunt, Ysayle, Minfilia, Papalymo - there’d been no rest for the wicked, not for a very long time. It had all spiraled towards their journey east - drawn again into another war, someone else’s fight - when what had _ truly _mattered had left their world.

She’s fighting the urge to look over her shoulder and she hates that, hates the hope, hates the _ loneliness _that pools in her stomach and curls in her chest. She’d never been this damn lonely on the Source.

He’s gone and he’s_ not coming back_.

Reinforcement through repetition. How many times has she said it? How many times has she forced those thoughts through her mind? She _ knows _ death - she _ knows _ what happens at the end. Expecting anything different is ridiculous.

Logic does not help the despair.

Mordant looks down at her hands. They no longer glow white; the light inside is no longer overflowing. She is safe.

The Scions want to know why. They desperately need to understand, to know how their hero defied fate yet again. She hasn’t found the words. How to even begin? With Ardbert? With Amaurot? How could she tell this story when she can’t even untangle it herself?

She misses him, but it is a strange way to miss a person. He’s a part of her now, as they once had been before the Sundering, but the consciousness, the person, the part of him that made him _ Ardbert_, had been the closest thing she’d ever had to a partner. The twins would likely be hurt to hear it, but regardless of their travels together Ardbert had known Mordant’s journey unlike any other could.

_ I’m no saint or savior - just another sinner. And I know damn well I’m in no position to judge… _

He hadn’t deserved to wander for a century. He hadn’t deserved anything that had happened to him. He’d been doing his best - doing what he thought was right. No one would have done differently.

But by the Twelve, she can’t help but wish he still stood beside her.

The clouds that cover the horizon are looming closer; the wind whips and pulls at her hair and clothing. Mordant stays where she is. The longer she can delay turning around and seeing herself alone the better.

She shouldn’t have come. She won’t find answers here - only longing, regret, and pain - but she was restless on the Source. What was there to do but retread old paths? The war is at a stalemate; she’ll not risk showing herself on the field with the Scions still stuck on the First. Her friends are on a different world or caught up in their own affairs. She can only fly over the Azim Steppe so many times before the view becomes mundane.

Distractions wouldn’t keep the loneliness at bay, the restlessness that makes her fingers twitch and her eyes scan crowds. She’d only realized she was doing it the day before, as she wandered the markets in Gridania and found herself turning her head at every tall, dark-haired Hyur.

_ He’s not coming back. _

**

She’s hurting. Turning pains over and over in her mind, picking at mental scabs, reliving everything that went wrong. He can't decide if he wants to try to reach out to her, or watch the despair turn inwards. He's not even sure she'll notice him.

He thought he’d die. He honestly had no reason to assume otherwise. He cannot say what being, god or otherwise, plucked his soul from the aether and left him here, adrift in a world of the living. He is not yet sure what use he can make of this form - can he talk? Will anyone hear him? Is he doomed to wander, a wraith without voice or touch, simply observing? He can’t decide if that is a gift or punishment, but the irony is not lost on him. Millenia of meddling and now _ he’s _the audience!

He hadn’t expected to lose. He’d known it was a possibility - known it ever since Lahabrea made his last and greatest mistake - but he’d chosen a different path. He’d actively avoided conflict, had done his very best to ensure she’d been as close to his side as possible.

Emet-Selch had overestimated himself. Such a strange feeling.

Well, it wouldn’t happen again. He’d played his cards, such as they were, and had learned too late her hand was the better. He’d always suspected the Warrior of Light to be an Amaurotian soul, but _ this… _

He crosses his legs at the knee and lazes to one side of the chair, head cocked to the left. He still likes to watch, truth be told, so he’ll stay where he is for now. The hero of the hour is like to do _ something _interesting, and if he’s cursed to observe these fragmented souls he might as well watch hers.

After all, the Exarch is doing the same.

**

She’d called him by name. By his true name, not the name he’d taken when he came to the First. She’d recognized him - _ remembered _ him! When he thought he’d left everyone who’d ever known him behind. When he hadn’t heard that name in over a _ century_!

Now she’s back. Here, on the First. In his city!

She hasn’t come to see him. Hasn’t gone to see any of the Scions, either. She’d wandered the Crystarium until she returned to her room in the Pendants.

He could watch her there. He is capable. The Crystal Tower would allow it. But something - politeness, protocol, decency perhaps - has always stopped him. She deserves a measure of privacy. He hates to imagine how she would feel if she were to learn he watched her in that private space.

But his curiosity, his worry…

He’s made a concession. He can tune his viewing to a specific angle, one that is available to the public and would not be considered impolite. Surely she will not mind if he watches her window from the outside, from a view others can see as well. He’s not intruding on her if he keeps the angle as such.

The sky is almost covered by clouds; there is little light from outside. She’s shrouded in darkness, a silhouette leaning against the wall as light pours from the room behind her. Though he can’t make out her face, he has no doubt it is her. Their fates have been intertwined for decades - he knows her no matter the time and place. The wind tugs at her, whips her hair, pulls at her clothes and buffets her, but she stands firm.

It is only when a flash of lightning illuminates the sky that he catches sight of her face, and he finds himself shocked out of his reverie. He stares open-mouthed, barely moved by the crack of thunder that rattles the Crystarium moments later. Her face is in shadow yet again, somehow darker than it was before, but there is no doubting what he’d seen. The question is _ why_?

He finds himself reaching towards the vision and halts, his crystalline fingers curling into a fist. He cannot touch her. He cannot reach her. But he must speak with her. He has to know.

_ Why _had she dyed her forelock white? For him? Or for…

He’ll visit her on the morrow. She wishes for privacy, and he would grant her that regardless of the questions he has for her. It is the least he can do, after all she has done for him and his cause.

Decision made, he stands back, watching, waiting for - and dreading - the next time lightning reveals her face…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I say "slow burn", I mean like The Burn with a healer that doesn't DPS and DPS that don't AoE. It's like a Sunday drive, we'll get there in the end!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the Warrior of Light ventures into the Empty a certain Ascian decides to follow along.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eden spoilers, ahoy!

G’raha Tia knocks again at Mordant’s door, his stomach coiling with anxiety. They are friends, are they not? Companions, adventurers-in-arms, saviours of the world if he’s feeling lofty. He could talk to her so easily _ before, _but now...she’s saved his life, knows all he’s done for her - all he’s sacrificed for her - and he’s finding it much more difficult to know how to act around her. His facade has vanished and he’s not quite sure how to replace it.

“She’s gone, sir.” He turns, face flushed. One of the serving staff gives him a bow, a smile on her face. “She left near daybreak - messenger came for her.”

“A messenger?” Who else knows she’s here? “Do you know where she went?”

“Towards the Rotunda,” the girl replies. “Rushing, she was. Seemed urgent.”

“You have my thanks.” He turns from the door, sucking his teeth as he ponders what to do next. On the one hand he’s rather relieved - he’s delayed what promised to be a most uncomfortable meeting for himself - but now he’s added worry to the mix. What could possibly be so urgent? Had he missed something while he watched her at her window?

He walks the familiar path to the Rotunda, looking this way and that, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. Instead he is greeted again and again by the citizens of the Crystarium. They are relieved he has returned, overjoyed at the new night sky, and more optimistic than he’d ever seen them - but he wishes he could vanish in front of them all. He’s taken to wearing his hood down - it would seem foolish to retreat back into it now that the Scions know the truth - and being seen by so many feels rather like walking naked through the market.

She is nowhere to be found. He has to admit defeat: wherever she went, he is not like to find her soon. He crosses his arms and looks towards Lakeland, to the sea of purple trees and jagged mountains blocking the horizon. Though she is out there, somewhere, she _ will _return.

His questions can wait another day.

**

Emet-Selch has found a comfortable nook to sit in. His legs dangle off a ledge, the ground far, far below, but he’s not concerned with the drop. His elbows are on his knees, chin resting on clasped hands as he watches the scene below him. The light drenching the land would once have tired him, but since his defeat he’s found a new joy in sitting in the sun.

Below him lies a plateau of earth. An odd creation - half stone, half machine - chases the Warrior of Light from quadrant to quadrant, wrecking havoc around them both. It’s been a delightful dance, a melee from block to block, and it appears the hero will win yet again.

Fledgling creation magic though it might be, he can’t help but be impressed. It isn’t what Mordant’s companions were hoping for - what he remembers of Titan on the Source is more giant than machine - but he has to admit it is strangely charming to see her try. Though she is using Eden to assist her, for someone without training she is doing much better than he’d expected. Leviathan had been a beautiful creature, fully detailed and intricate. Any Amaurotian would have been proud of such a creation. While Titan may not have the same visual appeal, he could not find any fault with it save it was not a perfect recreation.

He purses his lips and rests his fingers against them. That glimpse, before their final battle - that shade, that shadow in the brilliance. He’d thought it a trick of the light at the time, but now, watching her master magic her people had long ago forgotten, he can’t help but doubt. He’d always known her to be a fragment of an Amaurotian soul - who else could have brought down Lahabrea - but if she is truly who he thought he’d seen…

_ Was_. Not is. She is sundered, incomplete. She is not the soul he once…

Emet-Selch makes a noise of disgust. Useless thoughts; they’ll only hurt him. Has he not suffered enough? Must he walk these tired paths yet again? Until the shards are rejoined, daydreams such as those will only bring him pain.

There is a reason he hasn’t recreated the fourteenth Convocation member in his shadowy Amaurot.

Mordant makes a well-timed dash across the plateau, narrowly avoiding an incoming landslide, and he focuses his thoughts to the present. She continues to change the First, to undo what he’d laboured over for centuries. As frustrating as it is, it’s somewhat enduring all the same. He’s no longer a player in the game but he can’t help feeling invested in the final tally.

If she can do _ this_, what chance does Elidibus stand?

For a strange, fleeting moment, Emet-Selch does not care.

**

The Titan-thing is finally destroyed. Mordant falls to her knees, gasping for breath. Exhausted, exhilarated, joyful - she’s smiling, on the verge of laughter as the last vestiges of aether vanish into the space around her. At first she’d been terrified by what her mind had conjured - like a cruel mixture of Titan and Grynewaht as he’d been at the end, meshed together in their worst parts - but once battle was joined she had lost herself in it. She hadn’t felt such excitement since - since Omega!

_Dearest of all my enemies...I have new toys to show you!_

It’s fading. As she regains her breath and her muscles begin to ache, she knows she’s losing the battle-high. It’s being replaced by a sick, queasy feeling. Why Grynewaht? What part of her had thought of him? She’d been focused on Titan - on rocks and boulders, exploding earth and landslides galore, spaces collapsing - like Doma Castle had collapsed. The guilt that came when she thought of Ga Bu - why hadn’t she been faster? Why hadn’t she done more? _ Why _hadn’t she tried to sway Grynewaht out of his outrageous fascination with her? From their first meeting there had been no talk, no chance to parley. She’d pushed him towards his grotesque ending, just as she’d inevitably pushed Ga Bu to witness his parents’ deaths.

_I said I'd come for you, and I did! I'm here...I'm here...I'm here..._

She hadn’t meant for either. She’d been trying to save the world.

When she meets back up with the others earth has bled into the land just as water before it. It’s a relief to know this is working, though she’s doing her best not to consider the road ahead. Shiva in particular will be a hurdle: she has no idea what she’ll do should she find Ysayle waiting for her - particularly if she snaps her fingers and Mordant’s mind conjures Ascian magic instead of ice.

The group decides to head back to the Crystarium, keeping their deeds a secret from the rest of their companions. Mordant isn’t overly bothered with secret-keeping; she _ still _hasn’t told them about Ardbert and the history of her soul.

What would Ardbert make of Eden, and summoning primals from memory? Would he appreciate the effort to put his world to rights, or would he be wary of the newfound magic - not to mention the risk to Mordant?

He’d approve, she thinks, casting one last look over the expanse of stone and water. He’d gone to such extreme lengths to save his world. Surely he would appreciate the creativity of her own methods.

She stops, her heart in her throat. A shadow? A shade - something along the ledge, far, far above them. Something watching?

“Mordant?”

Behind her Ryne is confused and worried. She’s had that tone often since Amaurot; it’s Mordant’s fault, but she can’t find it in her to explain. Not yet.

“Just a shadow,” she says, but it wasn’t - it _ wasn’t_. She casts one more glance at the not-shade in the distance, but there is nothing there save rock. She turns to follow Ryne, her neck prickling with the feeling of eyes upon her. A trick of the light, a moment of exhaustion, her own mind playing tricks - but why would it choose to play _that_ trick?

_As I have told you a thousand times before: I like to watch._

Her lips pulled back in a silent snarl of frustration, she leaves the Empty behind.

**

Fascinating. She _can _see him, if he wills it. He can’t quite say why he wants to talk to her - can’t even say that _want _is the correct word. She pulls at him much like she’d done when he’d been alive, pulls at him like - like a splinter he can’t see, like an insect bite between his toes, like a melody in his head when he can’t remember the next chord. He wants to think of anything _but _her, yet here he is, lounging on a cliffside in the Empty, watching her play with primals. Watching, just as he'd done before.

Smiling a crooked little smile, Emet-Selch vanishes.


	3. Chapter 3

Eulmore is bustling, livelier than it had been in Vauthry’s day. New vendors have taken over the top floor, while the others levels are full of people. Mordant loves the colour, the vibrancy, the _ life _that fills the place. It’s too gaudy to be home, but she is more than pleased to visit when she can.

Her purpose that day concerns the new vendors. She sees Alphinaud sitting with the Chais and deliberately takes a wide berth, keeping her head down. Urianger, Thancred, and Ryne were content to focus on their mission with Eden, but Alphinaud would want to know more. He’d want to join her, or would request an update from the Source. She isn’t quite prepared for either.

The strange girl they’d encountered in the Empty is an interesting mystery, a new enigma Mordant expects will give her something to distract herself with. She can only hope she’ll be able to speak with her soon, as her theories about where the girl came from are far-fetched at best. She can’t imagine how a person could end up in such a position - or why they would choose to.

_ Even Emet-Selch had his reasons. _

She frowns. She’s been trying not to think about him, but she can’t exactly explain why. Ardbert had been her partner, another part of her soul. Emet-Selch had been her enemy, a creature of darkness she’d had no choice but to destroy.

“No choice” makes it sound as though she wishes it had ended differently, like she wishes there _ had _ been a choice, and that train of thought is _ exactly _what she’s been avoiding. It’s done, it’s in the past, and he is just as dead as Ardbert.

One battle - both of them, gone.

_ To have the people I hold dear struck down before my eyes, and be powerless to help them…? That - that I cannot bear. _

She grits her teeth and forces a smile onto her face. The vendor, a serious-faced youth, is quiet as she peruses his wares, makes a choice, and hands over the required tomestones. She doesn’t even bother bargaining; the day’s events have drained her. There’s more she needs to exchange, antiques for armor, but she can’t bring herself to deal with more people. With one last glance at Alphinaud, she teleports back to the Crystarium.

**

“Mordant!”

She’s tired. There are dark circles under her eyes and her shoulders droop, but G’raha Tia is excited to see her just the same. He’s caught her before she reached the Pendants, in the green space near the Catenaries. Passersby are watching them, curious yet respectful, but he only has eyes for her.

“Are you well?” It’s a silly question - after all they’ve been through, she does not need yet another person asking after her health. He rushes on before she can answer. “I’m glad to see you’ve returned. What brings you back to the First?”

She smiles, a genuine smile that chases some of the exhaustion from her face. “Testing some of Ryne’s powers, actually. I thought I could help her best.”

“A wonderful idea.” He smiles at her, suddenly realizing how open he is. His hood is down, his face bare to the world. She’s looking him in the eyes and he’s flustered, mouth dry, hands damp. He crosses his arms and looks at the markets, trying to find the words. “I had not expected you to return for some time.”

“Travel between here and home is easier than expected,” she says quietly. The smile fades from her face and her eyes are distant, almost sad. “I find I enjoy it here.”

“Good!” Too forceful. Too obvious. “We enjoy having you here.” Still obvious, but at least he used the plural. “Is there anything I can do while you’re here?”

She shakes her head, and that white lock of hair falls in front of her eyes. She pushes it back carelessly, but it’s all G’raha Tia can see. “Not this evening, but thank you for the offer. Ryne’s magic was - not trivial. I believe I’ll sleep early tonight.”

“I shall send food to your room,” he says, and though he wants to offer to join her, he can tell she would say no. Rather than force them both through _ that _awkward conversation, he decides to take a step back. “Rest well, Mordant. I’ll look for you tomorrow.”

There’s so much more he wants to say, but that is enough. He knows the time isn’t right, knows she needs privacy far more than she needs him. It is enough that she’s acknowledged him.

Tomorrow. He’ll ask tomorrow.

**

He’s in her room when she arrives, an invisible visitor lounging at the table. He’s slouched, head resting on one hand while the other traces the grain of the wood in slow, elegant swirls. The sound of the key in the lock doesn’t stop him; he’s still invisible, still able to sit, and the angle he’s chosen has a purpose to it.

The day before he’d only seen her from behind. Today he’d watched from a distance. Though he could barely make out her features, there’d been something _ different _about her. Something he needs to see for himself.

When she turns to him he sees it clearly: the white hair stands out sharply from her natural black. It’s not as clean-cut as his own - it fades in and out of her natural hair - but the similarity is uncanny. He finds his hand rising to his own forehead, as though to touch his own white streak, and drops it with a grimace.

What an unexpected development. What a strange feeling in his chest.

What an odd thing, to be taken by surprise.

She’s gone to the window again. The night will be clear, without any trace of clouds. He can only assume the Crystarium grounds are again packed with people, but the voices below seem quieter now. Perhaps he is simply not paying them much attention.

He should hate her. Lahabrea had. Elidibus and the other Ascians are quickly learning to. He has more than enough reason to desire her end, but even above Amaurot he’d felt something more akin to regret than anything approaching hatred. She’d been fascinating to watch, and he’d hoped - he seriously had wished - that she could have contained the Light. After he saw that glimpse of who she’d once been...

She’d been one of them, once. She had done great things. Surely - _ surely! _ \- she would do more.

He rises and moves to stand behind her, still invisible - still a wraith, a ghost, a figment. He’s struck for the first time by how short she is. When they’d fought she seemed towering, a whirlwind of power beyond his ability to contain, but here in her room he looms over her. He could rest both hands on her shoulders without much trouble.

But why would he? Why would he want to? He snarls silently and takes a step back. Her smell is - familiar. Too familiar, bringing memories of a time before the world ended, before he’d lost everyone, everything.

Before he’d been forced to watch her walk away.

The emotion that comes with that memory is powerful, unexpectedly so. Dark power curls around his fists, unbidden and unwanted, and he unleashes it without thinking. The chair at the end of the table explodes into splinters. He has enough control to shield, deflecting the debris towards the wall, but his anger is uncontainable. He can’t stay here - can’t be near her. With a snap of his fingers he disappears, destined for his shadowy home below the sea.

**

Mordant manages not to scream. The chair is destroyed, obliterated into tiny scraps of wood and metal. Dark marks - scorch marks - betray where the legs once stood. She wishes Y’shtola was there to see what aether may remain, but she doubts there is anything to learn beyond what she can glean herself.

Her ears are full of the sound of her own heartbeat. She knows, she _ knows _\- she can lie to anyone else, but she can’t pretend. She would recognize it anywhere.

No one snapped their fingers quite like him.


	4. Chapter 4

Though Mordant had hoped to browse the Crystarium’s markets in peace, she finds she isn’t bothered when G’raha Tia stops to say hello. At least he is someone she can talk to, someone who isn’t awed or overwhelmed by her. It’s strange to consider it, but she’s known him longer than she has Alisae. They’d fought together before she’d even been to Ishgard.

“Do you intend to stay here a while?” he asks. He’s bent over, inspecting rings at a stall, but she senses there’s more to the question.

“I believe so.” She can’t mention Eden and the Empty, but honesty feels like the best course. “There is much more to see and do, even if it seems a small help by your standards.”

He straightens and smiles at her, amusement gleaming in his red eyes. “A small help? After all you have done for the First, I believe you sell yourself short. Every one of us is grateful for every moment you spend in our company.”

“Ah, well.” It’s a wonderful compliment, and one that feels genuine. “I’m happy to be here.”

He looks away and his ears twitch, belying his nerves. “Would you happen to be free this evening?” At her nod, he continues, “Would you be interested in dinner? With me? Eating dinner with me, I mean. As friends do.”

His awkwardness is unusual, given all they’ve shared. She watches him, trying to get a sense of what has made him so uncomfortable, but his attention has returned to the rings at the stall. She has no other plans for that evening; there is no harm in accepting his offer. “I would enjoy that.”

“Well!” He’s pleased, almost giddy. “I’m sure you have much to do today, and I do not want to keep you. I’ll see you this evening, in the tower.” He hesitates a moment before leaving, clearly unsure if he should do anything more before he goes, and ends up settling on a bow. She laughs and curtsies back.

As much as she’s been avoiding people, she can’t help but enjoy the time she spends with G’raha Tia. A part of it is overwhelming relief - she knows how close they came to losing him - but she has to admit she is drawn to him. Whether it’s their distant past - his very, _ very _ distant past - or his heartbreaking honesty, the Crystal Exarch is a welcome sight no matter how dark her thoughts turn.

And they have definitely been dark that morning.

She’s relieved he never asked her plans for the rest of the day. She would hate to lie to him, hate to concoct a plan that he would not want to join her in. She doesn’t believe he would disapprove, not really, but until she has answers she would rather do this alone.

Amaurot, after all, is not _ his _ home.

**

It is impossible to miss her. As small as she is, as colourful as she is, she stands out among the tall, grey Amaurotians wandering the streets. She’s searching for something, rushing from building to building, but the shades within only repeat their stories. They know nothing new.

They cannot tell her where to find him.

He sits on the ledge of the Capitol building, one knee bent, elbow resting on it as the other leg dangles against the wall. He’s been watching her search, watching her question his people. At first he’d been angry - what right does she have to wander in this place? How dare she set foot in _ his _ city after killing him?

He knows it is her city, too. This is a homecoming, not a tour.

She doesn’t remember. It isn’t even a matter of having her recall those memories; it’s as though she is a slate wiped clean. There is no way for her to know what she has lost. She’s a simulacrum of what she once had been, and Emet-Selch’s heart can’t bear it.

Though he suspects he has the answers she seeks, he cannot find it in him to reveal himself to her. A part of that is common sense - she’d killed him once before, and he has no desire to repeat _ that _ sensation - but he must admit there is a small part of him that fears what he might do. Now that he’s aware of who she used to be it is difficult to see her as she currently is: his mind sees the _ other _ in her, the Amaurotine he’d known so well. The longing in him runs parallel to his sorrow, like a chasm through his chest that drags him down, makes him curl inwards.

The loss of his world and the loss of her are entwined, intermingled, jumbled together in a mess he has never tried to work through. He has always either committed himself completely to his duties, or he has retreated to Amaurot to sleep.

He’d discovered both were welcome alternatives to the misery that hovered at the edge of his consciousness.

But now that he sees the truth in her - what to do? He is torn between his longing and his common sense; he knows she is a new person, with new dreams and hopes and zero recollection of any lives before, but if he were just to reach out and touch…

He swallows hard and shakes his head. He cannot. He will not. No matter the tricks his memories play on him, she is a different person. He is chasing after a ghost.

Mordant finally tires of her search; he sees her mount up and soar out of the abyss, back to the watery lands of the Ondo.

He does not know what this half-life has in store for him. Other than Mordant not a soul can see him. He’s tried talking to his shades in Amaurot and they walk right through him, a dizzying, terrifying sensation that makes him feel as powerless as a babe. He’s tried working small magic, something other than teleportation, and nothing has succeeded. If he hadn’t blown apart the chair in the Crystarium he would have said his powers were gone - yet clearly _ something _ remains. What enabled him to use them? What had been different?

Mordant had been there.

He snarls softly. What a frustrating idea. He doesn’t understand why that would be the case, but he has no other theories.

He’ll have to experiment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter serves mostly as a bridge before we get into longer chapters, so I'm posting this and the next a little bit faster than before ^^


	5. Chapter 5

Dinner with G’raha Tia is enjoyable, but Mordant is caught in memories: memories of the Crystal Tower and her first journey through it - the beauty capped by horror - and memories of other meetings, other friends. Whether it be campfires, elegant dining tables, or a quick bite on the road, how many meals has she shared on her journeys? How many conversations has she held with people who are no longer a part of her life? How many times has she been the one to move on and leave them behind?

_ What do you want for yourself? _

“Is everything alright?”

She blinks, lowers her utensils. How long has she sat unmoving, hands poised above her plate? She reaches for her wineglass and takes a sip before turning her gaze to the Exarch. He is worried - worried for her, worried that he is boring, perhaps worried that something is wrong. Guilt washes over her and she forces herself to smile. “Just - just thinking of old friends.”

That doesn’t appear to be what he expected to hear, as his smile falters. “I hope I am not too bold, but to whom do your thoughts turn to this evening?”

Perhaps speaking of them will help. Sometimes wounds must be lanced, and is her sorrow not a kind of wound? “There is an Elezen on the Source, a lord of Ishgard. We dined much like this, once upon a time. He asked me what it was I wanted.”

G’raha Tia is very still. “What did you answer?”

“I didn’t.” She can’t help but laugh. “We were interrupted. I don’t believe I had an answer for him.”

“You are thinking about what you might have said?”

She nods and sits back in her chair. “It was a new question. At the time it looked as though our troubles were ending - the Dragonsong War had finished. The last remnants of unrest in Ishgard were finally settling down. For a moment it seemed there would be peace.” What would she have done, had that been the case?

“No rest for us sinners, hmm?” There’s a look in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. “We stand on the brink of another time of peace - one hopes, at least. Perhaps I am a poor stand-in for your lord of Ishgard, but I would pose the same question as he: after all you have done, what would you do now?”

She knows what she wants to do. She knows where her mind goes every night, where her feet want to lead her.

_ From the humblest streets to the highest spires, she fairly gleamed… _

She can’t tell him that.

“I’d like to help Ryne,” she says instead, and if it’s a half-truth she isn’t lying, not really. “When I was back on the Source I kept thinking of her saying how lonely she’d have been if all the Scions were gone. I may not know exactly what she’s struggling with, but better she experiment with someone who can help her control it.” Or help her destroy what is summoned...

The look on his face - approval, contentment, satisfaction, adoration - wrenches her. _ She isn’t lying _. That is what she hopes to do, here on the First. It isn’t a falsehood.

“Have you had a chance to talk with her about what happened that day? When we thought the Light would overwhelm you?”

She had expected the conversation to turn to this, but she still isn’t quite prepared with an answer. “Not yet. I’m still considering how best to explain what happened.”

He leans forward, earnest in his eagerness. “Should you require any aid in working through your memories, please know that I am ever able to assist. Your recovery without any sort of siphon - while miraculous - leaves us many questions.” He hesitates a moment. “I do not think I could bare to lose you should your recovery be impermanent.”

The emotions in his voice stir the guilt within her yet again. She owes him - and the Scions - an explanation, anything to put their worries to rest. “I promise you it is permanent. I only ask for patience.” She has to give him something, anything to make him understand. “It is not my story alone. I must do justice to every person in this tale.”

His red eyes search her face; what he sees must convince him, as he sits back with a smile. “I wish you much luck, my friend. If there is anything I - or we of the Crystarium - may assist you with, please do not hesitate to say so.”

“Thank you - G’raha Tia.”

His smile is so heartfelt - so _ pure _\- she cannot help but smile in return. She makes a mental note to say it more often; how hard it must have been to exist for so long without hearing his true name.

Like Ardbert? Like Emet-Selch? Like...

She keeps the smile on her face, keeps her focus on her host for the rest of the evening, keeps her mind from wandering down that path. She is a gracious guest, a good conversationalist, an entertaining friend. When she leaves the Crystal Tower at the end of the night G’raha Tia has no reason to think her distracted. It is only as she makes her way up the stairs of the Pendants that she lets that final thought form.

Like herself?

**

She is back in his city, roaming his streets. She no longer asks questions of the shadows she encounters; she sits in one place, staring, before wandering to another to do the same.

She is trying to remember. She is trying so, so hard. She wants to know these roads, these buildings, these people. She wants to know what lies on the other side of the curtain.

Emet-Selch remembers too much.

He sits on the bench next to her, silent, invisible. He hunches over, hands clasped between his knees, and entertains the fiction that she knows he is there: that they sit together, peaceful companions, content to exist without conversation. It is a fleeting, half-formed dream, but it is pleasant while it lasts.

“How could you have left me alone?”

His gaze slides to her. She faces forward, straight-backed as her hands curl into fists on her thighs. Whoever she speaks to, they exist only in her mind.

“We do this _ together_, you said.” She sounds close to tears and he is shaken, rattled. This is not what he expected. In all their journeys, all their time together, she had never once sounded so _ naked_. “You asked if I could do this - if I could save our worlds - and I could, with _ you _ beside me. But now you’re gone and I’m _ still here_. I’m looking for answers but there’s nothing, no one who would know - I don’t understand - who am I? _ Who were we_?”

He doesn’t dare turn to look at her, doesn’t dare breath. Had he not said similar words, millenia ago? Had he not cursed fate, that he should continue to draw breath while she did not? He bows his head as her words hit him like fists. “We were supposed to do this together! At the end of the day, no matter how difficult things were, I knew I had you to return to. You never glorified any of it, never lied to me. You were honest to the very end - but I didn’t understand! I didn’t _ know_! If I’d known saving our worlds meant losing you - meant losing _ both _of you…” She chokes back a sob and falls silent, covering her face with her hands.

He has no idea who she speaks of. As far as he can remember, every one of her companions survived their adventure on the First. Who had she lost? Who had he missed?

He startles as she jumps up from the bench. She screams a name at the sky, screams it with all the anger, longing, and misery that’s been building up inside her. It echoes back, a cascading name that bounces around them, filters through them, is everywhere and nowhere all at once. When the sound finally fades she sighs, shoulders drooping, and mutters another name.

_ His _name.

He doesn’t move. He doesn’t make a sound as she teleports away, leaving him in his city of shades.

He sits alone for a very long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone leaving comments, kudos, bookmarks; everyone who's still reading - you're all wonderful! Thank you!


	6. Chapter 6

“You want me to - to do what, sir?”

G’raha Tia turns around, planting his staff solidly beside him. Lyna stands in the center of the room, brows furrowed. He expected her to question him; this is a very unusual request, and not one usually made of the Captain of the Guard.

“I’m worried about Mordant,” he explains. “She is spending more and more time by herself. I have tried to speak with her, to allow her the chance to open up, but she has begged for more time.”

“She went through much,” Lyna says quietly. “Even one of her journeys would have been a trial for any of us - but to endure all of them in succession?” She shakes her head. “I too would want time for myself.”

“I don’t ask you to intrude on her,” he clarifies. “Or to interrupt her. I only want you to keep an eye on her as she passes through. If she seems unwell…”

Her hesitation disappears. “Of course, sir. Should I ask the Healers to do the same?”

Though more eyes on her would help calm his eager mind, he would not turn the whole of the Crystarium into a network of spies. “They have enough on their shoulders. Just the two of us should be enough.”

“It will be done.” She salutes and exits; the heavy door locks behind her.

He cannot watch Mordant every moment of every day. She’s taken to leaving early and returning late. Some days she comes back with her bags bursting with thread and ore and hunt marks; other days her arms hug her sides and she retreats to her room without a word. On those days she cancels their dinners and her shutters stay closed; he is frustratingly blocked from reaching her.

Where does she go on those days? Where does she wander?

He’ll have to ask again, soon. He’s put it off out of respect for her, but his worry for her is overwhelming. If the Light is not truly healed - if what Y’shtola and Ryne sensed was a front, or a temporary measure - if their Warrior of Light and Darkness is close to losing control yet again - she _ would _tell him.

Wouldn’t she?

**

She’s crying again. Angry, frustrated tears slide down her cheeks as she flips through the pages in her journal, rereading passages already blurred with dampness from nights before. She’s been at her desk for hours, reading and writing and scribbling over older parts as night threatens to turn to morning. Beside the journal is another piece of paper with notes, bits of information she’s pulled out of her many tales.

Emet-Selch leans against the wall on the other side of her bed. From here he can watch her write, though the angle is wrong to read the words. Her penmanship is flowing, graceful - except when rushed, when the words blend together and clump into clouds of darkness. Of late most of the journal seems darkened by her frantic writing and rewriting.

He keeps following her here. She doesn’t wander through Amaurot every day, but he always knows when she does. Some days she talks - winding monologues to persons he does not know, with pauses for responses only she can hear - and others she does not, choosing instead to pass through buildings in silence. When she leaves he comes with her, tucking himself into a corner of her room that he may listen to her continuing one-sided conversations, or watch her try to hold herself together.

She’s not in danger from the Light anymore. She’s in much more danger from herself.

He should not stop this progression. She is his enemy, is she not? She’d put an axe through him! Obliterated hopes and dreams millenia in the making! She took _ everything _from him!

But had he not done the same to her?

He suspects no one else knows how quickly her mental state is deteriorating. He never sees her with the Scions; though she often dines with the Exarch, Emet-Selch knows _ that _one would not let her out of his sight if he truly understood the state of her. She’s keeping secrets, perhaps for the first time in her life, and it worries him.

Who does she speak to? What memories bring her such pain?

It’s a foolish question to ask: she has lived through and witnessed more trauma than any save Elidibus and Emet-Selch himself. The Scions should have realized she’d start to fray.

An errant toss of her hand and her ink bottle crashes to the floor. She moans and rushes to clean it, grabbing what cloth comes to hand to soak the ink before it stains. He takes advantage of the distraction to lean forward and glance at the words she’d been writing.

_ There has been no evidence that rejoinings are temporary or reversible. If I cannot find a method to separate Ardbert’s fragment, it would seem… _

He feels a chill. Ardbert. That name again, the name she’d shouted. A companion on the Source? Someone she met on the First? He cannot pull a face to go with it from the fog in the back of his mind, cannot place it. She writes of separating fragments of souls, which makes no sense whatsoever. Her soul is eight pieces of a whole, the others having joined long, long ago. Strangers’ souls do not intermingle.

He realizes how quiet the room is and glances up. She stands near the foot of the bed, ink-soaked towels in hand, and stares towards him without blinking. He looks down at himself and feels a spike of panic: dark tendrils of power, like clouds given free will, twirl in the space around his body. He coils it back in, sharply, immediately. His anger at himself - how could be so _ sloppy _ \- is overwhelming. He snaps his fingers and teleports back to Amaurot, furious that he ruined his attempt to read any more of her journal - and, strangely, just a little guilty that he’d been caught.

**

Mordant drops the towel, heedless of the mess it makes at her feet. That coiling darkness, spiraling outwards - towards her? - vanishes with an all-too-familiar snap. She springs forward, reaching desperately, but grabs only air.

She is alone. Always, always alone.

_ No_. She knows that magic. Knows it almost as well as she does her own.

She doesn’t bother to leave the Pendants before teleporting, doesn’t bother to grab her weapon and armor. She’s in Amaurot before she’s fully aware of thinking it, striding past the enormous, towering buildings and bemused Amaurotians until she stands in front of the Capitol. She yells his name, _ screams _it with the pent-up fury and depression and thrice-damned loneliness that’s plagued her ever since she used one’s axe to end the other. She doesn’t know what she expects, but she has to get it out. She has to try.

He’s there. Suddenly, unexpectedly, Emet-Selch stands in front of the doors. He looks much the same as he had before, with his Garlean body dressed in robes of state. He hunches and his face is pinched, painfully aware that whatever charade he’s been playing has come to an end.

She doesn’t know what to do. A part of her wants to reach for a weapon, but she’s left them all behind. Another part wants to rush to him, to ask him every question that’s been rattling around her head. A third part - the part that seems to be winning - just wants to yell.

How long has he been watching?

“So. The hero returns.” His voice is a sneer but his eyes won’t meet hers. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“Stop.” She’s shaking; her emotions are dangerously close to overwhelming her. She isn’t sure if the result will be laughter, tears, or a scream, and she doesn’t want to test it. “Stop playing games. Stop the veneer.” She looks to the ground, tries to steady her breathing. “All this time - you’ve been here?”

“All this time.” His voice is melancholy, quiet. “Where else would I be?”

_ For where else could I go? Who else could I love but you? _

Fear, apprehension, and something _ else _\- something she can’t put a name to - shivers down her spine as that long-gone voice whispers through her mind. She swallows hard and forces herself to focus. “Dead. Gone.”

He shrugs and shakes his head, a gesture he’d made so often - before he turned on them. Before Mt. Gulg. “I would have thought the same. This is an unfortunate turn of events, if I’m being completely honest.”

“You’ve been here since - since I returned to the First?” Her mind jumps back to her second day, when she’d been out in the Empty. “You _ were _watching me!”

“Of _ course _I watched you.” He’s using his bored, nasally drawl again, that familiar tone that always served to irk her and the Scions, his voice going high when he stresses a word. “You were fumbling with magic you did not understand. I had to know the outcome.”

“As if I was an experiment?”

“No,” he snaps, finally looking at her. “As if you are a person I am invested in.”

That stops her. She narrows her eyes, wondering what trick she should anticipate. As a new-found master in half-truths, she recognizes one when she hears it. “Why?”

He rolls his eyes. “Why not? I’m dead, not dumb.”

“Why not Elidibus?”

“_That _ bore?” He snorts. “No, thank you - though I do appreciate your concern for my colleague. Surely you should be searching for him, should you not?”

She is not in the mood for these games. She waves away the question with the flick of one hand. “You’ve been in my room.” She sees him start to shake his head and interrupts his denial. "Your fingersnap gives you away."

His yellow eyes meet hers. “Ah. Caught.” His gaze slides away, mercurial. “Do not flatter yourself. I’ve been in many places.”

“Yet you keep coming back to me. Why?”

“Because I am dead and you are the one who killed me!” He throws his arms in the air, frustration finally winning over. “Because you came back to this shard when there is no reason to! Because you meddle with magic beyond your ken! Because, out of every godsforsaken mortal on this shard, you appear to be the only one who can see me!”

Like Ardbert, but not. The darkness to his light. She flounders, feeling the anger in her weaken. Minfilia had set Ardbert aside because his role was not yet finished, but Minfilia is gone. Who has decided Emet-Selch should play a similar part in this story?

“I have a hunch that you are not surprised.” His voice is dangerous, darkness, madness. There is a hint of Hades in his growl. “Tell me why.”

She cannot. Not here, not now. She doesn’t know enough, hasn’t put together the pieces - and she can’t risk upsetting him _ here _ of all places. She doesn’t know what he’s capable of, and she is unarmed. She shakes her head and takes a step back, wishing she’d stopped to grab her sword.

“Who is Ardbert?” His voice is a purr, lyrical but just as mad as before.

“How do you know that name?” She can’t teleport unless she focuses, can’t risk missing the aetheryte and losing herself in the rift, but she can’t focus with him walking towards her. She doesn’t dare turn her back to run.

“You screamed it. Here, in my city.”

“_Our _ city.”

He falters in his stride, stops before he reaches her. “_Our city_,” he murmurs, eyes distant. He drags the words out, makes them feel like eons instead of instants, and she realizes she’s said something dangerous. She’s said something she doesn’t have the knowledge to back up, doesn’t have the understanding to explain. She’s given him more than she anticipated.

When his eyes focus on her again they are vast and cold and furious. “No. Not anymore.” Before she can say another word he disappears, vanishing in a cloud of dark aether.

His absence seems to drain all energy from her. She suddenly realizes the hour - more dawn than night - and her head spins. She puts out a hand to stabilize herself, reaching for one of the pillars, but her hand passes right through it. She stares, tries again with the same result. She moves to another pillar, which offers more resistance before it does the same. The third pillar stops her entirely.

G’raha Tia had said he expected Amaurot to one day disappear. She never thought it would be so soon.

Stifling a sob, fighting to stay awake, she manages to focus long enough to teleport back to the Crystarium. The spell is half-cast before she feels herself begin to fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Emet-Selch's math is bad because he doesn't know everything that we know.  
2\. My headcanon for teleportation (specifically, why it takes a few seconds to teleport and why we can't do it in battle) is that it's kind of like trying to Apparate: if you don't focus hard enough, you might not make it to your destination.  
3\. From here on out you might catch snippets of dialogue from DRK quests or healer role quests. I wouldn't consider them spoilers - I'm never going to refer to the storyline of either! - but just in case you find dialogue you can't place, they're all from MSQ or those two quest chains.  
4\. Thank you again for reading! This was one of my favourite chapters to work on :)


	7. Chapter 7

“Exarch! She’s here, she’s in the Rotunda! Something’s wrong!”

G’raha Tia knows. He saw her enter, saw the crowd swell around her when she collapsed. He’d watched them take her in the direction of the infirmary before he found himself capable of moving his feet; Lyna had almost knocked him over as he ran out of the Tower.

“Did you see what happened before she fell?” He’s taking the steps two at a time, sprinting past everyone. He can see the infirmary across the courtyard and the crowd gathered near it, can hear voices raised in alarm.

“No, sir!” Lyna is easily keeping pace with him. “I think she was unconscious when she teleported.”

“Then we are _ very _ lucky she arrived here first.” He won’t think about what would have happened if she had passed out before appearing at the aetheryte, won’t even consider those consequences. They reach the crowd and slowly make their way through; people move away when they see he’s arrived.

Mordant lies on a cot near the back, eyes closed and face pale. As much as he wants to go to her, he finds the chief Healer instead. “What can you tell me?”

“Exhaustion, sir. No physical wounds we can see, and her aether seems to be fine.”

“Her aether - you are sure?” He doesn’t want to panic, doesn’t want to focus on something that should not be an issue. Y’shtola and Ryne were convinced! He should not doubt them, but - seeing her like this - every inch of him is riddled with worry.

The Healer nods. “I’m certain. She overstrained herself, sir. Nothing more. If you can convince her to explain how she got into this state we’d all be mighty appreciative.”

He nods though he is not hopeful. He hasn’t been able to convince her to explain _ anything_. This is one more mystery in the cloud that surrounds Mordant, one more unknown that feels like a secret he has no right to know.

They are _ friends_. Regardless of his feelings, what she tells him is entirely up to her.

He moves to her cot, nodding his thanks to the healers who move away to let him near. Her brow is damp; the white lock of hair has curled up and away from her forehead. He reaches out a hand, hesitates, and then slowly moves the hair back into place. He lets his hand trail down her pale arm until he can entwine his fingers in hers.

“Sir?”

“Please bring me a chair,” he says quietly, eyes never leaving her. “I would wait for her to wake.”

**

With Amaurot no longer being a place of refuge, Emet-Selch takes himself to the one place he knows he will not be disturbed.

The view from Mt. Gulg is breathtaking, if one stops to look. He keeps his gaze bent downwards, staring at the white and gold floor as his dark boots take one step after another. He doesn’t care to see the sun inching over the horizon, doesn’t care to look at the mighty Talos holding it all in place. He’s seen it before, back when he made a choice. Back when he drew a line in the sand.

Back when she failed to contain the Light.

Something in her had changed before their final battle. He’d sensed it yet had plunged on anyway. It had been too late to change his mind - there were no other avenues to take. He’d talked himself into a corner from which there was no return.

How had she done it? How had she healed her aether, her soul? Her companions hadn’t helped. No one else had been there. It had been her, all alone, struggling to stay upright…

He teleports mid-step, barely orienting himself to the location he wants before making the leap. He appears in the middle of a cavern in Rak’tika. He remembers Mordant and the Miqo'te looking at these murals, inspecting them for clues concerning Ronka, but Mordant had focused on one of them - the most recent of the three.

He floats down to the mural, landing on the ground a few steps away. Someone has tried to wipe it clean - or scratch it off - and most of the painting is gone. The remnants of five figures stand before a wave of darkness, weapons raised high. The middle one is the most degraded; it’s impossible to tell what race they might have been.

Emet-Selch raises a hand to the cavern wall. He’d lost colleagues to these five Warriors of Light. Elidibus had decided to make use of these Warriors, to repurpose them into his own creations of Darkness on the Source, but Emet-Selch had not been paying close attention. His focus had been elsewhere, with his Empire and the other moving pieces spread out across shards.

His hand rests on the empty space someone has scratched off. The middle person in the mural, the warrior of the Warriors, the leader of this group - _ Ardbert_, if memory serves him right.

He snarls, snatches his hand from the wall, and teleports with a _ snap_. Mordant will have answers - and he has the perfect bargaining chip.

**

Her hand grips his and he freezes, barely daring to breathe. Slowly, gently, her eyelids flutter before snapping open. She gasps and sits up straight, twisting to and fro in her cot to look around her.

“You’re fine, you’re safe,” he says, using the most soothing tone he can muster. He rests his free hand on her shoulder, gently - but firmly - pushing her back to the cot. “You’re in the infirmary at the Crystarium. You can relax.”

She believes him - which is gratifying - but it takes a good minute before he feels her muscles relax. She lies back and closes her eyes, bringing up one hand to cover her face. He is relieved when she does not try to pull her other hand out of his.

“What time is it?”

“Almost lunch.” He looks around at the Healers nearby. They clearly want to inspect her, but don’t know how to move him out of the way. “How are you feeling?”

“I - I am tired,” she says slowly, her eyes still covered. “Did I - did I do something foolish?”

“I’m not sure _ foolish _is the right word,” he says lightly. “If Alisae were here I believe she’d have many others to explain it.”

That makes her wince. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t doubt for a second that our Warrior of Darkness knew what she was doing, attempting teleportation magic at that level of exhaustion. I only find myself wondering what caused her to be in such a position.” He manages to keep his voice light, unaccusing, but it’s difficult. He wants to fuss, to explain to her just how worried she made them - made _ him _! - but she does not need that right now. She knows the risk just as well as any of them.

“I did not expect…” Her voice trails off. Her hand suddenly tightens on his. “Did you know Amaurot is fading?”

He has to take a moment to check that he is still seated. Confident that no, he has not fallen to the floor, he clears his throat. “I was not aware of that.”

She nods, her mouth turned down in a grimace. “Bits and pieces. I don’t know how quickly it will go, but parts of it are beginning to lose their...reality. I put my hand through a pillar…”

She’d been in Amaurot. She’d been wandering the depths of the Tempest, alone, without anyone knowing where she was. What had possessed her to go there? What possible reason could she have to return to that place - that place where _ he _ had been kept captive? Where they had fought almost to the death? _ Why _?

“You are unhurt?”

“Yes.” He can hear the smile in her voice. “And you?”

He blinks. “I beg your pardon?”

“You are gripping my hand so tight I thought for sure you must be in pain.”

He lets her hand go quickly, as though it was hot to the touch, and she actually laughs at him! He stares a moment before grinning begrudgingly. “Only mentally, I fear.”

“I am glad of that.”

One of the Healers finally loses his patience and walks over, looking deeply uncomfortable. G’raha Tia has sat at enough sick beds to realize his presence is no longer wanted; he rises with a smile. “I will return to the Tower. I am to be apprised of her status should it change, yes?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Unnecessary,” Mordant mutters, her eyes already closed. He watches her for a moment, but she is already falling asleep.

Whatever danger there might have been has passed. He is no more use in the infirmary - he’s now more of a hindrance than a help - so he leaves her behind. She’s given him more to ponder, more to worry about, but this may be one situation he can handle himself.

It seems he will spend his afternoon researching Amaurot. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another bridge chapter to end the first half! Angst and feelings and...other things...incoming!


	8. Chapter 8

Mordant finally manages to shake off the healers - and G’raha Tia - that evening. She’s grateful for their concern but ultimately embarrassed: she had taken an irresponsible risk and had almost failed in full view of everyone. She can already imagine the talking-to Y’shtola will give her the next time they meet; it makes her wince just thinking about it.

She should not have that done. Or, at the very least, she should have found a less popular aetheryte to pass out on.

It seems word of her incident has spread, as various residents of the Crystarium ask after her health as she passes. The Master of Suites actually walks around his desk to look her over, finally declaring her status to be “passable” before recommending a hot bowl of soup and an evening spent in bed. She isn’t about to pass up an excuse to get away from the curious - though well-meaning - eyes; she turns down the offer of soup but agrees to go to bed.

She manages not to scream as she enters her room. Emet-Selch lounges in the remaining chair at the table, his hands clasped behind his head.

She _ could _yell, grab the attention of the guard, but he said himself that no one could see him but her. She shuts the door behind her as forcefully as she can. How dare he wait for her where Ardbert once waited? How dare he presume? 

“I trust you are well?” His eyes and posture radiate boredom, but his tone seems genuine.

“I am.” Also foolish and humiliated, but he doesn’t need to know that. Her anger bubbles below the surface; she is moments from demanding he leave. “Why are you here?”

“I propose a trade. You clearly have questions about Amaurot.” He spreads his arms wide. “I clearly have answers. I’ll tell you whatever you desire in exchange for your own information.”

She arches an eyebrow, waiting for the catch. “What information?”

“Ardbert,” he croons. “Ardbert and the Warriors of Light on the First.”

She has to sit down, reaches blindly for a stool at the table and maneuvers herself into it. She can’t imagine how he learned of them, can’t imagine how he got so far, but he’s done better than the Scions. She tries to call his bluff. “What do they matter to you? They’re gone. They died a century ago.”

“They clearly matter to you, and that, hero, is reason enough.”

_ A smile better suits a -  
_

She twitches, cuts off the voice in her mind with a violent shake of her head. “Don’t call me that.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Would you prefer ‘sinner’?”

“I’d prefer my name.” When he doesn’t reply she sighs. “Information. What would a dead Ascian do with information?”

“Find the answers to his questions,” he says with a shrug. “Solve the riddle that ended in my death. Aren’t all ghosts supposed to be dealing with unfinished business? In my case I believe that is you.”

“Better than the first nickname, I suppose.”

He throws back his head and laughs, a rich, deep laugh so different from the maddening giggle he’d had above Amaurot. “‘Unfinished business’, is it? Fitting. Do you agree to my terms, hero?”

_ This world has had its fill of - _

Again she cuts off the thought with a quick shake of her head. “I can’t promise I’ll have an answer to every question.”

If he’s noticed her twitches, he gives no sign. “For every answer you can’t provide, I’ll keep my own answer. Like for like - or nothing for nothing. An equal trade.”

While she has no desire to spend her evening seated in front of the remnants of a man who’d tried to kill her, she can’t deny this opportunity is almost exactly what she’d hoped for. He could provide the information she cannot find from his Amaurotian shades - he could stop the voices, calm her mind. She isn’t sure what he can do with her information about Ardbert, but it _ seems _ harmless. Grudgingly she nods, but she sees him relax in response.

“The Warriors of Light from the First - are they dead?”

An easy enough question to start with, one she has no qualms about answering almost-completely honestly. “Yes. They died in the Flood.” He’s disappointed by her answer, but one question for a question. She doesn’t ask the question she wants to know most, choosing instead the one that might confuse him. “Who is Hythlodaeus?”

“What did you say?”

She’s put him off-balance. She can’t help feeling a little smug as he loses his look of superiority. “Hythlodaeus. Who were they?”

“How could you...nevermind.” He looks away, crossing his arms over his chest. “He was a good friend. Not a member of the Convocation, but he never wanted to be.” A muscle spasms in his jaw as he deliberately looks anywhere but at her. “He was one of the first to volunteer when we explained how we intended to save our star. He is - he _ was _irreplaceable.” He rubs the back of his hand across his mouth. “Are you going to ask more questions like this, or are you done upsetting me?”

“We’ll just have to see, won’t we?”

He snorts. “Fine. What did the First’s Warriors do on the Source?”

“You weren’t paying attention?”

He rolls his eyes and clasps his hands together on the table. “_Please_. Elidibus was supposed to take care of these things. I was busy.”

It’s not something she minds telling - there is no information he can learn from her that would help him now - though she’ll be careful to leave certain parts out. He does not need to know _ exactly _how well she knows them. “It’s a long story,” she warns. 

“Death is dull, so I’m more than prepared to hear it.”

She can’t argue with that. She takes a deep breath, shakes her hair out of her eyes, and relaxes on her stool. With luck he can keep up.

**

She isn’t who she used to be. She could never be who she used to be. She is half a soul, a collection of fragments that are achingly familiar, yet painfully alien. He sees her in the way she tilts her head when confused, or the way she squints her eyes when she smiles. He smells her when he stands too close, hears her when she sighs. It’s Mordant sitting across from him, but his memory constructs the _ other_ , the full Amaurotian soul, and they manage to overlap for brief moments.

He’s surprised at the tale she tells. He had no idea Elidibus had stretched himself so far. It was a good idea, though playing with Nidhogg’s eyes was a mistake. That was how they lost Lahabrea - the Emissary should have known better than to go near the things.

When her tale is finished - or as close to “finished” as she’s willing to make it, for her story stops before she explains how the Warriors left the Source - he leans forward, waiting. Her first question had caught him completely off-guard. He hopes he will be better prepared this time.

“Who was I?”

Alas, he no better suited to answer this question than the one before. His heart aches at the loss of her; it’s all he can do to stay in her room. He’s promised her an answer for an answer, and it’s his turn. He can’t very well leave now.

“Also a powerful Amaurotian,” he says. He doesn’t have to tell the _ whole _truth. “One of the cleverest.”

“Hythlodaeus said we knew each other - that we were friends.”

“_Friends_,” he sneers, speaking without thinking. “The word is inaccurate.” He stops himself from saying any more on _ that _topic. “You’ve been talking to my shades.”

“They are more forthcoming. Did I agree with you? What happened to me?”

He exhales sharply through his nose. “Those are many questions.” None of which he wants to answer. He meets her gaze, something he’s been trying to avoid, and the anger in those warm brown eyes rattles him. She looks like she did the last time he saw her - right before she walked away.

“We fought,” he says, voice rough with emotion. He pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes. “You and I argued.” In his mind’s eye he can still see her leaving, her long grey robe swirling around her as she swept out of the room. He remembers calling her name, his voice echoing through their chambers as he reached after her - and silence being his only answer.

“Do I look like - like I used to?”

He opens his eyes. She looks exhausted, drained, _ different_. He opens his mouth to answer, hesitates, and wonders why he hesitates. “Let me see.” In one fluid movement he’s out of the chair and through the table, stopping beside her. She jumps to her feet, surprised and wary. His heart beats in his ears as he lets his gaze roam from head to foot; he’s trying to be rational. He’s trying to control himself. He’s trying to see her for what she is - as _ Mordant_, not the one who came before. She is nothing, _ nothing _ like she used to be, except -

Gently, slowly, he brings one long finger under her chin and angles it upwards. Her eyes flash at his touch, anger that he _ dares_, but she has control enough to stand still. Her warm brown eyes are the same - the same as they had been when she’d removed her mask, had disrobed before him, had met his gaze without hesitation when he reached for her. She’d had fire in her then; he hadn’t been able to resist her. He’d wanted to test himself in that blaze, wanted to prove himself the one to tame it.

Imagine his surprise when _ she _ had tamed _ him_.

“You have the same eyes,” he hears himself say. She gasps, lips parting, and he reacts without thinking. He doesn’t have to bend far to meet his mouth to hers, doesn’t have to move much at all. As kisses go it’s very innocent - but it’s _ her _ he’s kissing, her lips he’s touching, her shivers racing through his arm. He pulls back, hovers over her. Her eyes are hooded, dark, inviting, and he’s suddenly aware of the feelings - the _ need _ \- racing through him. He clenches his jaw and steps back, lets his hands fall to his sides.

He hadn’t meant to do that. He regrets it already. But -

But she _ tastes…_!

“Forgive me,” he murmurs, and with a snap of his fingers he’s fled as far from her as he can possibly go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oop.


	9. Chapter 9

G’raha Tia watches his hero swirl food around her plate. He has no idea what to do, no idea what to say. It’s been five days since she fainted and she hasn’t said another word about Amaurot, hasn’t explained why she was there. She hasn’t been wandering - according to Lyna she hasn’t even left the Crystarium - but that isn’t the relief he’d expected it to be.

He can’t keep asking if she is well. She hears that enough from everyone else - she doesn’t need to hear it from him.

“Have you been training with Ryne much lately?”

She flinches. Her, his Warrior of Darkness! He reaches across the table before she can pull away and grabs her hand, waits until she meets his eyes before he speaks. “Have you talked to _ anyone _ but me since…?”

Her face goes so, so pale. “No,” she whispers.

He shakes his head. “You need to, Mordant. You cannot stay locked in here forever.” Seeing the confusion on her face, he clarifies, “Alphinaud? Alisaie? Even Lyna misses seeing you at the gates! Your friends are still here, and they would love to help you.” Even if she won’t speak to him, maybe - just maybe - she will open up to one of them.

“Y’shtola would yell at me,” she mutters before nodding reluctantly. “I should speak with them. I haven’t been sleeping well lately.”

“Bad dreams?”

She swallows hard, looks away. “You could say that.”

“I’ll send word to the twins as soon as I can,” he offers, pulling back his hand. She is still very pale, but she’s said more words in the past few minutes than she has for the rest of the meal. “Should you feel well enough to leave the Crystarium tomorrow, mayhap I shall join you.”

She smiles. “I would enjoy that.”

It’s a small step in the right direction, but it pleases him nevertheless. She returns to her meal - to actually _ eating _ her meal - and he sits back with a smile.

**

It’s almost midnight when she hears a knock at her door. She turns away from the window, frowning. G’raha Tia would not come this late. Who else would visit?

Who else would have the courtesy to knock?

Not _ him_.

It’s a surprise and a relief to find Alisaie waiting for her, but at the look on the girl’s face Mordant instantly regrets opening the door. The Elezen pushes her into the room, teeth clenched as she shakes her head and slams the door behind her.

“What do you think you’re playing at? The Exarch says you’ve been here for weeks - _ weeks_! Why do none of us know that? Amh Araeng isn’t far, you know! You made the journey easily enough before you went back to the Source! And this fainting business - he says you were at the bottom of the Tempest! Alone! What could have possibly possessed you to wander down there?”

“I wasn’t _ wandering_,” Mordant snaps back. “Has he told you _ everything _I’ve done since I returned?”

“He better have, since you seem to have no mind to do it yourself!”

“Are you my keeper?”

“I’d hoped I was your friend!”

Mordant winces at that. She _ is_, she is such a wonderful friend, but she can’t pull the girl into this. “I’m sorry.”

Alisaie sighs and throws her hands in the air. “She’s ‘sorry’! As if that fixes everything!” She places her hands on her hips. “What has gotten into you? Why are you going back to that - that _ place_?”

“I need answers,” Mordant says, meeting the girl’s eyes. Damn G’raha Tia for finding one of the few people she has never lied to; she is not about to start now. “That was a city, Alisaie! A city of real, living, breathing people! A city that created everything we know! Do you know what that means for this world? Do you know what we could learn?”

“Are you an academic now? Are you doing this all without taking Urianger with you?”

“Must you be so hostile?”

Alisaie blinks, tilts her head to the side. “I suppose I am being rather forward, aren’t I?” She sighs again. “I’m worried about you. The Exarch is worried about you. If either of us tells Alphinaud about this you just _ know _he’ll descend upon you and never let you out of his sight.” She raises her head, one eyebrow arched. “And I get the feeling you do not want that.”

Why had she been terrified of Y’shtola finding out? The twins are _ far _more intimidating. She rubs at her temples and closes her eyes, feeling the beginnings of a headache. “Give me a moment, please.”

She hears Alisaie drop to the bench near the door with a groan. “All the time in the world, Mordant - just give me _ something _that will settle them down.”

Speaking of Amaurot is out of the question; the man that dwells there even more so. Unless -

“You remember the Warriors of Darkness from the Source?” she asks quietly, opening her eyes.

The girl crosses her arms. “Couldn’t forget them if I tried, could I? They _ did _poison me.”

Mordant moves forward quickly, joining Alisae on the bench. “Yes, of course. Say you are greeted by one of their - their shades. A ghost. Say they have answers to questions you could find no other way. Would you - would you speak with them?”

“Hypothetically?”

“Of course.”

“Maybe I _ don’t _ want to know what you’re doing.” Alisaie slouches. “I’m not sure, Mordant. Answers are important, but your own safety even more so.” She shakes her head. “They were on our side at the end, were they not? They gave all of themselves to stop the Flood? In that case I would speak with them, yes. With sword in hand, perhaps, but unlike _ some _people I would rather not take that risk.” Alisaie reaches across the couch, rests a hand on her shoulder. “What does this have to do with Amaurot?”

Mordant feels herself tense and Alisaie removes her hand in response. “I can’t - it’s not - I’m not in _ danger_, Alisaie. No more than I was before we stopped the Lightwardens.”

“If that’s meant to be comforting you rather missed the mark, I’m afraid.”

“I know what I’m doing.” Does she? “I just need a little more time.” How much? “You can trust me.” Says the one risking her health - her sanity - for shadows. “I’m trying to piece together what allowed me to hold back the Light. I’m so close - so damn close - and I just…” She trails off. She can't keep using that excuse. They'll see through it soon, but she hasn’t had the courage to return to Amaurot. She doesn’t know what she’ll find.

She doesn’t know what she _ wants _to find.

“This is something you have to do on your own?”

The understanding in Alisaie’s voice almost makes her sob. She hadn’t expected to hear it and the relief is overwhelming. “For now. It’s - it’s _ my _story. I have to put the threads in place.”

_ It’s our story_, they’d said together, combining, at the last moment Ardbert had existed as his own person. Her heart aches with the loss of him, but -

It was never just their story, was it? It started long ago, in a city she can’t remember.

With a man who knows more about her than anyone else.

“I’m almost there,” she says, her voice stronger, her resolution clear. “Just a little more time.”

“No more fainting in the Rotunda?”

“No fainting anywhere, if I have my way,” she grumbles, and that earns her a laugh. “I’ll be more careful - I promise.”

Alisaie shakes her head, her brow furrowed. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep - remember? Just do your best. Probably don’t do what I would do.” She pauses. “Or what Alphinaud would do. Ask us for help when you need it, okay?”

“Thank you.” As much as she misses Ardbert, as confused as her feelings are towards G’raha Tia and the Ascian, she is grateful to all her friends - both here and back in the Source. She would not be where she is - she would not be _ who _she is - without their constant encouragement and aid. “I’ll have to thank the Exarch, too. I assume he asked you to come?”

The girl rolls her eyes. “Ordered, more like. As gentle as a breeze most days, but that _ voice _when he actually thinks to use it…!” She stands and makes her way to the door, opens it but pauses on the threshold. “He cares about you, you know.”

“As I care about him.”

Alisaie opens her mouth to speak, but shuts it without uttering a sound. Her smile as she waves farewell is forced, as though she has thoughts aplenty yet no idea how to voice them.

Mordant can’t help feeling relieved. She knows the path of thought her friend is treading and it isn’t something she’s capable of considering right now - not while her dreams end with her in Amaurot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may notice the content rating change in the future. I’ve been rewriting upcoming chapters and realized I have definitely bypassed the M rating (woops). If you filter out E ratings, I’m so sorry! I’ll provide warnings on those chapters so you can skip to where story resumes if you want to keep reading.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was my absolute favourite chapter to work on and I'm honestly kind of sad it's done!

Emet-Selch is no stranger to loneliness. There are days he welcomes it, rejoices in the knowledge that he is not like the other beings walking the shards, revels in being so far beyond what they can even comprehend. He’s set himself apart on purpose - created a world for himself beyond what anyone is capable of reaching. Though he’s filled it with shades repeating the same tired stories he draws comfort from the buildings themselves. He ate here, lived here, slept here.

Loved here.

It’s fading. Every day a little more of Amaurot untangles. The far places are going first, the buildings at the ends of the gorge, the ones he barely sees. He’ll come across trees without trunks, roads he can sink into, pillars hoisting transparent slabs into the sky. Some doors no longer open at his approach; others fail to close.

The Amaurotian shades do not notice. They continue their existence as though the world isn’t coming down around them - though they speak of the Final Days, they have no realization how true their words finally sound. After centuries of living their half-lives it may all be coming to an end.

He’s staring at a building that almost gone when he senses her presence. He has no doubt it is her, alone, standing near the city aetheryte. Though he hasn’t seen her in almost two weeks, he could not mistake that pull of aether.

His first reaction is to flee. He made a grave mistake the last time they met. He had been trapped by memories he thought long expunged from his consciousness, had given in to base temptations without thought for consequence. That loss of control humiliated him. Not just that he’d given in but that he’d done so with _ her_, of all people…

He will not hide. He is Emet-Selch, Solus soz Galvus, the Architect, Hades, and many more names besides. He will go to meet her.

His optimism is foolish and he knows it. She loved him, left him, _ killed _ him.

He should be running.

He snaps his fingers over his head and teleports near the aetheryte, standing on a ledge over the square. She sees him immediately and they both freeze, like prey caught without cover. He isn’t sure which is prey and which is predator, but as he slowly lowers his hand to his side he doesn’t consider it a bad thing to be caught.

She takes the first step. She looks thinner than before. He can imagine that she, too, has problems sleeping - or does he flatter himself? He hasn’t been to see her at all these last two weeks; he has no idea what she’s been doing. Perhaps she has spent time in the Empty, undoing more of his work. Perhaps she has been back to the Source, waging war on his empire. Perhaps she and the Exarch...

“You owe me an answer, hero,” he says, as she stops at the bottom of the staircase. She looks so tiny, dwarfed by her surroundings and his perspective, but he remembers how she once stood just as tall as he.

“Ask.” She is wary, unsure of his motives, unsure how this will end. She has every right to be; he is surprised she came. Any other soul would have stayed away.

“How many fragments of soul are you now? How many times rejoined?”

She doesn’t have to answer. The surprise on her face gives her away. He passes a shaking hand in front of his eyes, caught somewhere between jubilation and anger. He has no idea how she did it, where she found the ninth fragment, but it explains _ everything_. She is _ more _ now; she is becoming who she should be. He’s ecstatic that it may be a possibility, but furious that he didn’t catch it earlier.

_ That’s _how she’d killed him. Her, and those Warriors from the other shards. It had been just enough to tip the balance.

“Ardbert,” she says, her voice cracking. Her arms wrap around her waist. “Ardbert was a fragment.”

_ Of course_. Of _ course _ Elidibus brought forward a fragment of her without knowing. Of _ course _that fool introduced them without realizing what could happen. He’d often called Lahabrea an idiot, but Elidibus seems poised to outdo him.

“He found you before the end, did he? When it seemed you were lost?”

She shakes her head and he’s surprised. “He was - he was like you. A ghost of himself. He’d visit me, when…”

With a snap of his fingers he’s standing in front of her. She doesn’t make a noise, only takes a step back, catches herself. His heartbeat is pounding in his ears; he doesn’t know if he wants this answer, but he croons the question anyway. “Did he visit you like I do?”

Her voice is a whisper. “Never like you.”

The anger - the mad jealousy coiling in his chest - lessens, but does not completely fade. “Do tell.” His voice is a low, purring rumble, and he watches her eyes widen. She recognizes Hades now. She knows the man behind the mask.

“He was a friend. We didn’t know - not for the longest time, not until after Mt. Gulg - that we were fragments of the same soul. We just thought - both Warriors of Light, both Warriors of Darkness. Both fighting desperately to stop the Flood.” She shakes her head in frustration. “He figured it out before I did: he put the pieces together, saw the shape we were supposed to be.” She meets his gaze and her eyes are suddenly cold. “We rejoined above Amaurot.”

That flash of light, different from when she’d been turning into a sin eater, and then her voice - sounding darker, lower, _ different _ \- and that last vision, when he thought he’d truly seen _ her_…

Would he have done anything differently? Had he known earlier - had he realized who she was - would he have continued this fight? Would he have pushed on?

He’d been given this choice millenia earlier. She’d asked him to choose, and when he’d refused to give her an answer…

He looks down at her, at the black hair streaked with white, at the lips he tasted, the eyes he cannot forget, the soul he knows inside and out.

...she’d refuted him.

“You wanted to know who you were, didn’t you?” His voice is higher, lilting. Anger and sorrow are the only shields he has left. “You were one of us, _ hero_.” He uses the nickname like a weapon, watches her flinch as he drags it out. She’s fighting voices in her mind even now and he finds a horrible kind of satisfaction in seeing her struggle. “You stood above the other Amaurotians from your seat on the Convocation. You, and I, and twelve others governed this city - this majestic, perfect city!” He throws his arms wide and ignores the faults, the sea far above, the silence, the transparency showing here - even here! “You wielded creation magics with the best of us. You brought forth unique designs, aided others, gave your time to your people. You were…” _ Wondrous. Awe-inspiring. Beautiful. _ He cuts himself off, stares at the ground. Once, she had been all that and more. Now…

“I left, didn’t I?”

He doesn’t ask how she knows, doesn’t try to deny it. “You disagreed with my plan. You spoke against it - against _ me_.” They had argued before, debated and disagreed, but never like that. Never with such passion, such despair. They’d both known what was at stake. “You walked away from the Convocation - and from me.”

“That means a lot to you, doesn’t it?” She tilts her head to one side. “We have history together.”

She remembers _ none _ of it. The years they spent together - the magic they created, the places they went, their entire lives - _ gone_. A part of him whispers that she chose this - did she not refuse to help? Does she not deserve this half-life? - but he pulls back from that thought. He would _ never _ have chosen this for her. If he could have guaranteed her a life like his - a life unsundered - _ he would have_. He’d have done everything in his power if it meant sharing the rest of time with her.

And now the best them of them, reduced to..._ this_.

“You implied we weren’t friends the last time we spoke.”

His poor, ancient heart. He sighs, a long, explosive sound that cannot possibly convey how tired he is. For all the millenia he has lived, for all the lives he had wound his way through, _ this _ may be his least favourite moment.

How can he possibly describe a relationship like theirs?

When he speaks his voice is flat, bored, drawling - like he’s reciting someone else’s story and not his own. “I said ‘friend’ is too meagre a term. We were _ partners_, in every sense of the word.”

She is quiet for a long, long time. He lets the silence stretch; he does not want to explain any further. He does not want to say the word. When she finally speaks her voice is very low. She is beginning to understand. “You loved me?”

He focuses on a building far away; somehow his voice is steady. “Until the day you died.”

Out of the corner of his eye he sees her stagger. He bows his head and turns to leave. What more is there to say? She does not remember, but now she knows. It is not a kind thing to inflict upon a person, not a favour she’ll thank him for.

“Emet-Selch!”

He cannot look at her, cannot bear to see the inevitable rejection on her face. Without a word he walks away, leaving her behind.

He is not sure if he is relieved when she does not follow. 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer #1: I love the Exarch. He's the best boi and BFF and I'll make this up to him one day.  
Disclaimer #2: This is the shortest chapter of this entire thing - but! The next chapter is 3x the length for...reasons...

She stayed too late in Amaurot. She had never meant to find him, to talk with him. She’d intended to question the shades, try to learn more about the last Convocation member, but Emet-Selch supplanted that idea. After he’d left she’d sat near the aetheryte, weighing, considering, filtering - and half-hoping he’d return.

G’raha Tia is waiting for her when she teleports to the Rotunda.

She’s never seen him angry. His ears are angled back, arms crossed over his chest. He stands unmoving, red eyes never leaving hers as she walks towards him. He gestures to her to follow, and she does, walking quietly behind him. It is far past their arranged dinner, so far into the evening to be considered night.

She’s guilty, yes, but anger is winning. She is not a child to be scolded, to be watched every moment of every day. He is not her parent or guardian - he has no authority over her. It is not his right to hold her to a standard - to demand her attention every day like clockwork! She is not _ his_!

By the time they reach the Crystal Tower she is stewing in her anger. The door closes behind them and he turns to face her, jaw set, brow furrowed. “I am very relieved to see you safe.”

She crosses her arms over her chest and doesn’t reply. As angry as she is, she doesn’t _ want _ to fight. She is drained from her afternoon with Emet-Selch, still emotionally-compromised from the mountain of revelations he’d dropped on her. She is trying her best to stay calm, to recognize the Exarch for the friend he is.

He wants what is best. He has always wanted what is best. She should not blame him for that.

“Mordant, that place is stealing all of you. Can you not see that you are giving all your energy to it?”

_ I am...fine. Completely...and utterly...fine! Better than fine!  
_

She pauses, closes her eyes. She must focus. She cannot listen to the whispers. “This is the first day I’ve gone back for weeks. You know that.”

“And you were there for _ hours_! What if you’d been hurt? What if you were lost? How would any of us find you in a place that size?” His frustration is winning over as he starts to pace. “It’s a city of ghosts, Mordant! A city of the dead! You’re wasting your time!”

“It’s _ my _ city!” she shouts back, her self-control crumbling. “They’re _ my _ people! Godsdamnit, that was my home!”

_ ‘Twas a long, lonely path you traveled to arrive here. To return across that vast distance alone… _

He’s turned so, so pale. His ears are flat against his skull and his eyes are wide. When he speaks it is a whisper. “You cannot be serious.”

“Don’t you understand?” She’s not crying, but it’s hard to see, hard to work past her frustration and her hurt. How could he _ say _that? How could he speak that way? His voice is merging with the others, the memories. She’s having problems staying present. “I was one of them, G’raha Tia! I was -”

“Don’t say it!” He takes a step towards her, fists clenched. “You weren’t! You aren’t! You’re our hero, our Warrior of Light and Darkness! You were _ never _one of them!”

_ Woe betide the man who stands opposed to the Weapon of Light, for death will be his reward. _

Not _ him, _of all people. Not _ now_. She shudders, shakes her head, manages to lose the voice but hold onto the anger. “Why is it so impossible to be both?”

“They’re _ dead_! All that’s left is Elidibus, and good riddance! They ruined the _ world_, Mordant. They razed it, and they’re trying to do so again! If you hadn’t destroyed Emet-Selch -”

She points a finger at him. “Don’t. Don’t say his name.” She’s shaking, shivering, having trouble breathing. She needs to get out of here. The voices in her head are coming on fast; echos of _ my first friend, my enemy _ repeat endlessly. She turns to leave, puts out her hand to reach for the door handle.

“Is that why you dyed your hair?” G’raha Tia’s voice is laced with bitterness. “For _ him_?”

She turns to face him, not quite understanding. “My hair…?” She looks over his shoulder to his viewing screen, dimmed to show reflections. For the first time since returning to the First she sees herself, sees the shock of white hair running through the black. Her hand raises to touch it, test that it’s real. Her other hand covers her mouth.

_ When…? How… _?

_ Retread the path...seek and you may yet find. _

It’s too much. She doesn’t bother with the door, simply closes her eyes, focuses, and teleports away from the Exarch without another word.

**

G’raha Tia stares at the space where his hero stood. He doesn’t know how it all went so wrong. He doesn’t know what he should do next. He’s made a misstep - a miscalculation - and now…

When he finds Lyna he doesn’t yell. He doesn’t pace. He is remarkably calm as he makes his request. “Please send messengers to the Scions. I have need of them.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our slow burn is almost at an end! Whew.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a) the longest chapter and b) the one that earns that explicit rating. Whewwwwww what a journey!

When he senses her presence for the second time that day he thinks he’s made a mistake. She’d just left! He must be hopeful, fanciful, imagining things. She has no reason to return this night.

No reason at all.

“Emet-Selch!”

She’s there, striding across the courtyard below the Capitol building. He stares, not quite comprehending the scene before him. He doesn’t even consider teleporting away; he’s too fascinated to leave.

She is much worse. He’s guilty, dry-mouthed. He _ knows _she’s suffering, has known it from the start. He should not have told her.

“Why me?” she cries, and she closes the gap between them, stands right in front of him, takes the front of his jacket in her fists. “Why did it have to be me? Why did you have to _ tell _me?”

“I don’t -”

“I can’t _ remember_! I can’t remember this city, or the people, or you! I can’t remember a Convocation, the Final Days, anything we did or said!” She lets go of his jacket and shoves him; she barely rocks him, but her touch is a surprise. He grabs her forearms to stop her and she throws him off, shoves him again. “I can’t remember _ any of this_, but do you know what I see when I try to sleep? Do you know what keeps me awake, night after night? Why I find my pillow damp every morning?”

Heart in his throat, knowing he does not want to hear the answer, he shakes his head.

“I see Haurchefant!” She’s sobbing now, tears flowing down her cheeks as she struggles to get the words out. “I see Ysayle, and Minfilia, and Papalymo! I see Conrad, Meffrid, Tesleen, Moenbryda! I see Yotsuyu lying at my feet, and my hands full of persimmons!” With every name her fists slam into his chest, weaker and weaker as she continues. “It was bad enough with _ them_, but now…!”

“Now?”

“Ardbert...and _ you_. My axe through your chest as the sun rises.” She raises red-rimmed eyes to his, her hands flat on his chest. “Do you know what they all have in common, Emet-Selch? Do you know why I can’t forget them?” She pushes at him again, the smallest of shoves, and starts shaking her head. “Because I _ failed _ them. I’m supposed to be their godsdamned _ hero_.” She says the word like a curse, like it’s ash on her tongue, and his guilt multiplies exponentially. “I want to be what everyone thinks I am - I want to be the woman you remember, the saviour G’raha Tia expects me to be, the warrior the Scions depend on! I want to be it all but _ all I see is death_.” She raises her head, finally takes a breath. Her eyes meet his and her sorrow is bottomless. “How can you _ stand _ it? How can you go on, when you’ve left _ so many _ behind?”

He takes her hands in his, holds them close to his chest. He’d told her he’ll never lie to her, and he is not about to start now. Though the words take everything from him, he forces himself to give them voice. “I look forward to the day I will see them again.”

She immediately shakes her head, immediately tries to deny that path, but he catches her chin in one hand and pulls it upward, forces her to look him in the eyes.

“Have I not found you?”

Her eyes widen. This time when he leans down to meet her mouth she _ responds _ . Her lips part and she presses against him, curling into his chest and thighs. She’s Mordant but she’s also _ her_, and she is _ intoxicating_. Her tongue is in his mouth and his teeth are at her lips and she’s moaning into him, the sound shooting through him like an alarm, like a call to action. Her hands are fists, his shirt caught in her fingers, and she’s dragging him down towards her. He wants, he wants, he wants - but not like _ this_.

“Not here,” he gasps. “Not in the road.” Before she can argue he snaps his fingers and they’re across the city, inside the building he has long called home. He half-expects her to back away as she comes to her senses, but her grip on his shirt remains firm. She’s still pulling him down, pressing her mouth against his. He meets her, bites her, allows his hands to roam over every inch of her. She’s soft to the touch, for once not in armor, but she’s still wearing far too much. He snaps his fingers again and her clothes disappear, leaving her pale and glowing in the dim light cascading through his windows. She gasps and leans into him, seeming almost to vanish among the folds of his robes.

“Do you trust me?” he murmurs, one finger tracing the line of her collarbone. He’ll go no further if the answer is no, but he hopes - he wishes...

She is shivering, whether from cold or nerves he cannot tell. As close as she is, he _ knows _ she can feel him, stiff against her stomach. It’s crass and unsubtle, but _ she _ presses against _ him_. She shifts against him and he forces himself to stay still, to resist, but even the slightest touch makes him grind his teeth.

“You loved me?” Her voice is low, murmured into his shirt as her hands rest on his lower stomach.

“I did.”_ I do. _

“Show me.”

He almost laughs with relief, with excitement, with euphoria. This he can do. This he _ will _do, unreservedly. He has waited so, so long for the chance. Slowly he spins them so her back is against the wall; she shivers at the cold touch but does not resist. He tosses his gloves and jacket aside, eyes roaming over her. She is different, yes, but in every way that matters she is all he needs.

“I loved you like this,” he tells her softly, taking her wrists in both hands and pulling them above her head. His teeth nip at her neck as he uses a touch of magic to bind her wrists in place against the wall; he hears her breathing hitch as his tongue leaves cool wetness under her ear. He lets his hands glide along her body, delighting in rediscovering what he’d long thought lost.

“Like this,” he murmurs, bending to take one nipple in his mouth. Her breath comes in gasps and her hips buck towards him as his lips, tongue, and teeth play with her. One hand slowly makes its way down her stomach and she trembles in anticipation; he, too, is not calm. He remembers this dance, he remembers every position, every touch, every word he ever said to bring her to the edge, but it has been _ so long_. He will not - he must not - rush this. He moves his mouth to her neck as he gently, ever so gently, presses one long finger against her slit. Her moan almost breaks his self-control; she is _ loud_. He marks her neck as he slowly slides a finger inside of her. She moans again, a low sound that vibrates through him, and her thighs part, granting permission. He has never been one to turn down so rare an invitation.

“And like this,” he whispers, slowly lowering himself to kneel at her feet. He leaves a trail of kisses and bites as he goes, turning his gaze upwards as he gently nips at her inner thigh. Her mouth forms a perfect circle of surprise that quickly turns into a gasp as his tongue gently, tentatively tastes her. Her moans tumble through him and he presses himself closer, adding a second finger as her thighs spread further. He maneuvers one of her legs over his shoulder with his free hand; she doesn’t need any hints to straddle him. His magical bindings keep her hands restrained above her head as his shoulders take her weight. She’s moaning a chorus of words, pressing herself closer to him; he can feel her heels digging into his back as she tries for more leverage. He is in no hurry; he is content to drink her down.

“Please,” she gasps, and he feels her shudder. There is something in her voice that wasn’t there before; he pulls back, craning his neck to look up at her. He watches the muscles in her arms tense, strain, and then the bindings around her wrists shatter. He gapes mutely at her, both shocked and ignited. She places her hands on his head for balance as she slides off his shoulders, a small smile on her face as she guides him to his feet.

Sorcerer of eld or no, she’d killed him once. He should never, ever forget that.

“Clothes off,” she orders, and he snaps his fingers again. His breath hitches at the feel of cold air on his skin but she’s already pushing him backwards; the backs of his knees hit the bed and he falls onto it, catching himself on his elbows so he can watch her climb up to straddle his thighs. She meets his gaze as she takes him in her hands and slowly, _ slowly _ lowers herself onto him. It’s all he can do to stop from dragging her down as he feels her envelope him inch by inch.

“Tease,” he gasps, but then she’s straddling his lap, close as she can possibly be, and he’s lost in sensations and emotions he thought he’d never feel again. “_ Please_.”

She puts her hands on his shoulders and pushes him backwards, follows him down and pins him to the bed. Her hips rise...and fall. Rise...and fall. He wants to buck, to push back, but she’s testing the waters. She’s savouring the moment.

“‘He says ‘please’,” she murmurs, her voice low. He can hear her smile. “Does Hades beg?”

That _ name_. It lights a fire in him, a desire so strong he grabs handfuls of the bedcovers to stop from flipping her over. “Only for you,” he replies gruffly, and then hisses as she starts to ride him. He leans back, relaxes into the bed as she takes him again and again and _ again_. There’s a grin on her face, a knowing, sleepy-eyed smile that makes him bite his lip, swallow the groan building in his chest.

“I hope you’re still content to watch,” she says, her voice breathless, her hands pressing on his chest.

She’s telling jokes! At his expense! He huffs out of a breath of laughter and uses a touch of magic to summon phantom hands to trace her thighs and breasts. Her gasps, first of surprise and then of pleasure, heighten the _ need _ racing through him. “I never simply _ watch_, my dear.”

“No,” she replies, leaning back to sit up straight and grind against him. “Sometimes you sleep, too.” The look in her eyes turns his stomach into butterflies. “The Viis told me they caught you napping, back in Rak’tika.”

He propels himself to sit upright with her, wrapping his arms loosely around her as she continues to press harder, to take him deeper. “I’m not napping now,” he says quietly, and turns his attention back to her chest. Her nails dig into his arms as his tongue teases her; her shivers ripple through them both.

“I am - ah - glad of that.” Her voice is distant as her eyes close; her breathing changes as her grip on him tightens. “Hades, I - I -”

“Take me,” he says, covering her chest in quick, tiny kisses. “Take all of me.” When he hears her gasps change to moans he replaces his ghostly hands with real ones, one delicate finger pressing against her.

“Mine,” she gasps. And then, in a growl, “_ Mine_.”

He feels her clench, her back arch, hears her inhale as the moment hits. He holds onto her, moves with her, watches her go through it. When she opens her eyes, her bright, warm eyes, he’s still rocking his hips to match her.

**

Her thighs are slick, still clamped around him as her chest shudders with every breath. She’s shaking, her toes tingling, and her skin is hot to the touch. Her hair is in her face and her clothes have ceased to exist and he’s inside of her, _ filling _her, and a small voice is asking if she is still sane, but -

Has she ever felt so _ alive_?

_ This _ is exhilarating. _ This _is pleasure on a scale she’s never felt before, pleasure shared with an equal. There’s power here too, dominance and absolute trust, but the end goal is so much more…!

His hands are kneading her thighs, calming, coaxing. She raises her eyes to meet his and catches the apprehension. He’s worried she’ll leave. He thinks she’ll change her mind.

Foolish Hades.

She tightens around him, watches his eyes widen as her muscles clench. She leans forward and gently tucks his white streak of hair behind one ear. “Your turn.”

The look in his eyes makes her catch her breath. She has a moment to register his movement before they’re rolling; she’s on her back and he’s kneeling between her legs, still buried inside her. She lifts her legs to wrap around his back as her hands reach above her head, pushing against the headboard as he thrusts inside her. Her eyes flutter, close, and she can’t stop the moan once it’s started.

“Look at me,” he orders, and she obeys. The look in his eyes - hunger, desire, _ need _ \- is exhilarating and terrifying. She’s never been looked at this way. She’s never _ felt _ this way. He puts one hand near her head for leverage, letting the other trace her ribs. Her eyes widen and her breath catches as he bottoms out and holds himself there, sheathing himself to the hilt. “Say my name.” The order is a whisper, a caress, the lightest of requests.

“Hades,” she whispers. Her hands drop to his back and she’s clawing, pushing, wanting to take all of him. “_ Hades_.”

His lips on her jaw, his tongue at her mouth, his teeth catching skin. He pushes his hips forward and she gasps, arches her back as he fills her completely. He withdraws after a moment, pauses, and his pale gold eyes meet hers. He’s unpredictable, _ dangerous_, but he’s hers, totally and completely, and she wants what he offers. She’ll take the hand of the devil because she knows she is more than a match for him. Not that he would hurt her -

\- not unless she asked.

She grins and stretches underneath him, feeling the tip of him against her, waiting, teasing, knocking at the gate. “More?”

“I’m committing this to memory,” he says quietly, his long fingers tracing her breasts, her stomach, her hips. “Every inch.”

Her grin fades. She sits up and it is her turn to grab his chin, to direct his face to hers. “I’m not going anywhere.”

The look in his eyes wrenches her heart. She grabs him by the back of his head and pulls his mouth to hers, kissing him as passionately as he’d kissed her on the road down below. He moans, deep in his throat, and she feels his hands at her thighs, dragging her towards him. She curls her knees towards her chest as he thrusts into her, once, twice, again and again.

“I’m here,” she says, mouth against his, swallowing his moans. “I’m yours.” He’s pushing her higher and higher as the sound of them fills the room; her gasps, the noises coming from his throat, the bed beneath them, his name on her lips - all of it fills the room as he fills her, and she can feel herself beginning to come undone. She hears his breathing hitch, feels his speed increase, and then those ghostly hands are back, pressing slow circles into sensitive skin. She throws back her head and as his teeth mark her neck she’s _ gone_, gasping, crying out his name as the moment hits her like a blinding wave. He follows her with a moan, his shudders echoing hers as he crests inside her. He manages a word, a name whispered in her ear, and though it isn’t her name - it _ is_, somehow, it means _ her _more completely than Mordant ever could.

Finally, finally, _ finally_. Both of them struggle to catch their breath, chests heaving as hands carefully wander over skin. It’s wonderful just to touch, to marvel at what she has just claimed. He’s doing the same, soft hands tracing her skin. Slowly, gently, she unwraps her legs. He carefully backs away and slips out from her thighs, the feeling making her shiver, and she curls into a ball on her side. Exhaustion is coming on quick; she wants to stay awake, wants to talk to him - _ has _to talk to him - but her eyelids fall as he rests a hand on her cheek.

“Sleep, love. I’ll be there soon.”

**

Her eyes close and he stays there a moment longer, watching her, drinking in the sight of her. After all his work - the countless ages since the world was sundered - she is _ here_, sleeping in the bed they once shared. Her smell fills the room and he can’t get enough of it, can’t resist trying to watch her, smell her, _ taste _ her - as though he’s making up for all the years they lost. He doesn’t understand how it led to this but he is grateful, thankful, amazed. He never thought - after all this time - he would never have dreamed...

When he’s convinced she’s sleeping deeply he moves away, stalks quietly to the long window that takes up one wall of his room. He can’t help but notice more buildings are going dark. More lights are off, more pieces are missing. It’s not only the edges of the city, not anymore. Soon it will reach the very heart.

He places his hand over his chest, feels his own heartbeat. Steady. Strong. Stronger than it has been since he first woke. He suspects…

He closes his hand into a fist. Tonight, he should discover why. Tonight, he’ll have an answer.

Like a beast content in its lair, Hades settles down to watch. 


	13. Chapter 13

G’raha Tia does not pace, but it takes every ounce of his focus to stay still. The workers at Venmont Yards have given him a wide berth, though he has not asked for it; they can sense his dark mood without needing to speak with him.

When he’d repeated Mordant’s words to the Scions none of them would look him in the eye. It was Alphinaud - honest to a fault - who’d had the uncomfortable privilege of explaining that they had suspected as much. The city had recognized her, whereas it had not recognized any of them; they’d only been able to find the Ascian because Mordant’s name was listed on their registry.

It doesn’t change anything. She is still the Warrior of Light and Darkness. She is still the hero he remembers her to be. If he can only pull her out of this misery, this melancholy…

Most of the Scions descended to the Tempest floor hours ago. He realizes the journey is not a fast one - there are no amaro under the sea - but he did not expect it to take quite so long. Alphinaud and Urianger had decided to spend their energies searching other areas of Norvrandt. He cannot fault them; both are angry with him for not mentioning Mordant’s strange behaviour earlier.

He sees a shape at the edge of the water, a blur, a bit of colour. Thancred stumbles to his feet coughing. Y’shtola, Ryne, and Alisaie follow soon after. G’raha Tia runs down to them, staggering through the sand and rocks.

“She isn’t with you?” He’s scanning the shallows, hoping desperately to see another form rise from the waves. “You didn’t find her?”

“Y’shtola wouldn’t even let us near the place,” Alisaie snaps from her knees, shaking her head in frustration.

He spins to face the Miqo’te, anger and disbelief warring with protocol, but the look on her face stops him. He swallows his emotions. “Why not?”

“The city is - fading.” She sounds confused, frustrated. “The aether is being pulled elsewhere. The edges are gone, and I would not trust any of you to pass through safely.”

“We could see some of it ourselves,” Thancred adds, shaking wet hair out of his eyes. “It’s much smaller now, and some of the buildings look strange.”

“Incomplete,” Ryne clarifies. “Like someone has taken part of their aether for something else.”

Something within him freezes. “How much aether?”

Y’shtola guesses his train of thought, anticipates the conclusion. “We have not heard or seen any sign of a summoning. The beastmen here have no reason to do so, and Ryne says there hasn’t been a release of aether since Emet-Selch fell.”

“It’s being drawn _ somewhere_,” the girl says, frustration colouring her voice. “I simply cannot tell where.”

“And Mordant…?”

All of them look upset, though it is Y’shtola who answers. “If she is down there we must hope she is able to teleport out. I don’t assume her to be _ careless _, exactly, but if her mood is still as you described…”

“We will wait for Alphinaud and Urianger,” he says, false optimism colouring his voice. He will not consider other possibilities. “They are right in that we cannot assume she has returned to the depths. Perhaps if she noticed Amaurot’s condition she went elsewhere for - for a time.”

The Scions and Ryne nod, but none of them are convinced. Mordant is not one to turn back from danger. The one place they are unable to reach is the one place she is most likely to be.

**

Mordant wakes with a cry, sits up straight in bed, throws the covers from her. She’s shivering, crying, shaking her head. The dream is so familiar - she should be used to it! She should realize!

_ But Emet-Selch, robed in Ascian black, is already fading into motes of light. His smile is the last thing she sees before he disappears completely and her chest is aching, she can’t catch her breath, she’s reaching for what’s left even as it fades into the sunrise... _

“Mordant.”

He’s at her side, arms wrapping around her, warm and strong and so, so real. She buries her face into his neck and breaths deep, clears her mind, slows her frantically-beating heart. He smells like magic, like dark aether and old books. He smells like _ her _, still lingering on his bare skin.

“Mordant.”

A different tone. A warning. Her brow furrows as she pulls back. His face is sombre, his eyes serious. She touches his jaw, softly, delicately, and feels him tense in response.

“Do you trust me?”

Her answer remains the same as the night before. His expression is not what she expected: sorrow emanates from him in waves. He rises and offers her his hand; she takes it and lets him lead her to the window. She has questions to ask, but the moment she sees the city they die on her tongue.

Entire buildings are gone. Others are transparent, others still have gaps in their walls, roofs, structure. Like a patchwork quilt left unfinished, she can see through what should be whole. She puts her palms to the glass as despair curls in her belly. She should not feel this way - this is a recreation! This is a home she does not remember! - but she aches with the impending loss of it.

“Watch.” His hand touches her arm and the magic that spins through her takes her breath away. She blinks as she can suddenly see lights, colours, power she does not recognize. “Calm. You are seeing the city’s aether.”

She steadies herself and stares. The view is overwhelming, but slowly she begins to make sense of it. Like streams drifting through air, the aether moves in currents around and through all of Amaurot. It loops, spins, rises and falls in slow-moving channels. The air is bright with it. As she watches she realizes it all flows in one direction. Her breath catches in her chest and she backs away from the window, shaking her head as realization crashes over her in a wave.

All of the streams run to her.

“You pull in aether when you dream.” He is very quiet. “The streams fade as you wake. See - they already begin to go.”

The streams are dimming; the change is gradual. She can only imagine how bright it was before she woke. She turns to him, caught somewhere between denial, confusion, and guilt. He anticipates her questions but does not look eager to answer them. She feels his hands rest on her hips and steels herself for his words.

“In our time, you were strongly gifted with creation magic.” He tries to make it soothing, as though it is a compliment and not a curse. “You could create anything you wished without much effort. We often teased you - said you made it seem as easy as breathing.”

Breathing is not so easy for her now. “Is this - is this because of Eden? What I do in the Empty - am I draining aether from Amaurot?”

He smiles a sad little smile. “A good guess, my dear, but no. You do not dream of the Empty, do you?”

She stares at him. He cannot possibly mean…

His magic washes over her once more and she sees more aether streams, more energy swirling through the air. It spins around the room, washing both of their pale bodies in bright light. Though the paths the aether takes are winding, this is no mistaking where they end. Every stream and ribbon of light starts with her...and ends at Emet-Selch.

His hands grip her arms as she shakes her head, already framing her denial, but he holds her in place.

“Not possible.”

“You of all people are going to claim something impossible? You, who defeated Nabriales and Igeyorhm, who vanquishes primals without a second thought, who travels between shards on a whim? You, who has seen more in your life than any other of your time, _ now _claims to know the limits of possibility?” He shakes her and she snarls at him, her anger snapping out of her.

“Magic can’t bring back the dead!” She twists, breaking free of his grasp. Her hands are fists. “Even _ you _cannot do that! Which means - which means…!” She will not cry. Not in front of him.

“Am I the real Emet-Selch, or a creation from your own mind and magic?” He gives voice to the thought she will not form and her anger is quickly supplanted by grief. His voice becomes a murmur; for the first time he does not sound sure of himself. “I know things you do not. I possess magic you do not. My memories far eclipse your own. But - I cannot say. Perhaps you are far better at creating shades than I - or perhaps your blessing gives you power I know not. Regardless, I am tied to you and, through you, this city.”

“How do you know this?”

“What other conclusion exists? You cannot tell me you believe all of this -” He gestures to the aether around them, “- means anything else. I am stronger near you, my magic is more my own when we are close, and for every building that vanishes I am able to do more!” He cannot hide the agony in his voice, cannot stop his gaze from straying to the window. He sighs and covers his face, presses fingertips over tired eyes. “I’d long suspected something kept me tied here, but I assumed it was the city itself. Perhaps my aether, feeding it over eons…” He drops his hands. “I never would have guessed…”

“Guessed?” She is misery compounded; she is locked in a cage of her own guilt and sorrow. Her arms wrap around her bare chest as she stares at the floor; she can only be grateful that the voices that have followed her for weeks are silent.

His hands cup her face; his lips brush hers. “I never would have guessed how deeply your soul longed for mine.”

She rests her forehead against his, his third eye cool against her skin. She does not want to ask, but she has to know. “You are tied to it, you said. It will not last forever.”

He understands her unspoken question. “A few months. Perhaps less.”

Her knees give way and his arms are around her; she may as well be weightless as he carries her to the bed. She curls herself into his chest, wills herself not to cry. It should not hurt this much, but it’s a wound reopening, an illness resurfacing, a relapse of everything she thought she’d put behind her.

When he speaks his voice is low, soothing, muffled by her hair. “I had not expected even one more night. To be given a chance at _ many…_” His breath is a huff of laughter. “I do not deserve this.” She feels his hand gently slip under her chin and relents, allows him to direct her face up to his. “It will give us enough time.”

“Enough time?”

“I _ must _teach you. Your creation magic will not end if left unchecked. I can show you how to contain it, to use your own aether for smaller magics.” He hesitates and lowers his voice. “We can still save Amaurot.”

She can see his solution but the pain of it tears at her chest. On top of all this, _ how _ could he ask that of her? “You want me to stop draining aether. You want me to end my magic early.”

“I have put the better part of myself into this city. I have spent centuries recreating our homes, our loved ones - I have toiled over these echoes with all my heart. If I ask nothing else of you, I ask that you allow me this: the chance to save the only piece of our world that we have left. _ Please_.”

“You accept this so easily?” She can’t keep the bitterness out of her voice, the accusation.

“The alternative would be far more painful, truth be told.” Though he wears a smile, there is little humour to it. “Do you remember what I told you? That my world would have no need for heroes? _ Yours does_. It needs you, desperately, and I would say the reverse holds true as well: your world has no need for villains.”

She opens her mouth to argue but he shakes his head. There’s a haunted look in his eyes, something dark and desperate just below the surface.

“I know what I am - what I’ve done. I am already gone, and the world is better for it.” He gently wipes her tears from her cheeks and leans closer. “Do the ones we love ever truly leave us? Or do we carry them with us through trials and tribulations, like hands at our back, whispers in our ears?” She gapes at him as understanding dawns. He _ knows_. He knows about the voices, the whispers, the memories of people and places that plague her every waking moment. He knows how the past drags at her, how it overlays the present. He has gone through this, too. “There are others who need you - who depend on you not simply as their _ hero_, but as their ally and friend. Regardless of how many you leave behind, you do not walk my path.” There is steel in his voice. “You will not.”

Faced with the loss of his loved ones and an eternity of isolation, he had turned inwards, had chosen a path inundated with blood. Not unlike Nidhogg had - but not _ like_, either. As different sides of the same coin, both had been unable to move forward, to accept the changes in the world and their changing place within it. They had cut themselves off from any who remained and focused on their desired goal: for Emet-Selch, the return of the world he knew at any cost. For Nidhogg, vengeance everlasting.

The past offers nothing but memories. She cannot lock herself into a world that no longer exists only because it hurts to consider the alternative.

_ Perhaps it should have been easy for me, then. To give up my home forever, for a greater cause. It wasn’t. It hurt so much... _

She sees the city over his shoulder, glowing beyond their window like a jewel in the deepest depths of the sea. It is so achingly familiar, so completely unique, so entirely of Emet-Selch…

“Ah. I know that look.” His voice is husky. “You are resolved.”

She meets his pale gold eyes. The conviction to kill him the first time had been absolute; there had been no other option. This, this second ending, is the opposite. She does not want this, not with any part of her being, but her fear of the task does not absolve her of it. Warrior of Light and Darkness she may be, she is not powerful enough to change this fate.

_ ...it hurt, but I survived. Because they were there. Because _ ** _he _ ** _ was there. _

“Not today.”

His fingers whisper along her skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake. “No, I think not. I have much to teach you - and I have not yet had my fill of you.”

Her body is responding even as her emotions churn within her. “I did not mean - I would not have chosen -“

A finger against her lips silences her. “I chose. If you feel anything akin to guilt, please - let it go.” His eyes are molten gold, his hands hot, his voice rough. “I shall have to make memories to last you a lifetime.” He’s leaning her back, down into the folds of the bed covers, and she relents, giving in to the need racing through her.

“Just a lifetime?” she murmurs back, reaching for him even as he parts her legs.

He pauses and cups her face; she lays her hands over his. There’s a glint in his eyes, a twist of humour. “I daresay we both have had enough of eternity, but if you ask it of me - I might just be willing to deliver.”

“Show me,” she whispers, and the light in his eyes melts her.

Later, when he flips her over to take her from behind, she catches a glimpse of Amaurot, aether still drifting lazily towards her. His chest presses against her back and his mouth’s at her ear as his hips move in slow, gentle waves.

“We have time,” he murmurs. “Focus on me and only me.”

She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath. He is here, now, and she must be present for every second. Every word, every breath, every touch - she’ll commit each to memory. She will not forget.

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and all the tomorrows after can wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I listened to A Matter of Time, by Marcus Warner something like 100 times writing these past two chapters - it might be in my brain forever now.


	14. Chapter 14

Two days earlier she mastered his final lesson. Now they stand together on the Capitol’s balcony, shoulder to shoulder as they look out over the flickering, patchwork remains of Amaurot.

He hates seeing his city like this. Though it is a recreation, it is _ his _recreation - a work of art to rival anything he created in the days before the Sundering. Watching it come undone is not as devastating as the Final Days, but he finds himself stuck in memories, fighting between the past and the present as he sees his second home destroyed by a force outside of his control.

As her nightmares improve, his become much, much worse.

The Capitol is the only building that remains relatively untouched. It is still sturdy - it is still safe - and it’s where they’ve chosen to hold their last words.

He grimaces. _ Chosen._ For all that he tells her this is his choice, they both know he would give anything - _ everything _\- to stay at her side. If he only had something to give...

“I have a last request, if you don’t mind.” She glances at him, startled out of her thoughts, but freezes when music suddenly drifts across the city. The sound starts low, the barest sliver of piano, before it begins to build with vocals and strings. She stares at him wide-eyed as he extends one hand to her. “Dance with me.”

A smile plays around her lips as she slips her hand into his. He moves before she has second thoughts, his other hand on her waist as they glide to the music. They’d been very good at this, once. He’s surprised he remembers as much as he does, relieved she follows him so well. He dips her low and shocks a laugh out of her; she follows his every lead and he’s overjoyed, he’s in love, he’s _ home_. Amaurot glitters around them, the remaining buildings standing sentry to this farewell dance.

The song is not naturally a long one, but it isn’t until the fifth repeated chorus that she realizes he is stalling. She smiles at him and shakes her head as he takes her around the balcony again, spins her, catches her in his arms. He’s here, dancing with her, but he’s also in the past, dancing with her as a crowd looks on. Friends and family, loved ones and colleagues, fellow members of the Convocation all robed and masked - it’s a party, a gala, and they’ve been dancing for hours but he does not want this to end, this perfect moment, this snapshot from a time before the end.

Again, the chorus. Again, she smiles. He can almost hear the words _ foolish Hades _as he brings her close to him, kisses her before resuming their dance, but he doesn’t care - so he’s a fool! This is nothing new. He was lost from the first moment he saw her, from the first time her attention set upon him. He’d spent so long adrift and now that she is in his arms - is he not found?

Again, and her smile falters. She has begun to unweave the magic she’s created, to untangle the knots of aether that hold him together. He can see it dimming, feel the change within him. He feels a spike of panic - _ not yet, too soon, why rush _ \- but it _ isn’t _ too soon. They have delayed far longer than he intended. The end is coming whether he wills it or not.

Again. She’s crying now. He has stopped spinning her, stopped letting her go, because he wants her in his arms for as long as he can possibly hold her.

He slows the music and she’s shaking her head, trying to pull him into another round, but he cannot bear to hurt her with another delay. The magic is unwinding even as they come to a halt; he can see the streams that feed into her, into him, and they are slowing.

Finally - _ finally _\- the music dies away. They are locked together in the middle of the balcony, her head against his chest. Every breath she takes is a shiver; he knows her work is almost done. She suddenly steps back from him, a desperate look in her eyes.

“Let me see you,” she says urgently, her hands gripping his robes. “The _ real _you - the you I first met.”

He hesitates. It has been so long - so incomprehensibly long - since he’s worn that face, that body, that mask, but - for her? _ Anything._ Though his aether is already dispersing, he has enough magic left for this.

The change is quick; his skin feels strange as the body melds, shifts, settles. The robes are soft against his skin; the mask hides most of his face. Though his true form would have towered above her, he keeps himself at her height.

She steps forward hesitantly, her eyes roaming over every inch of him. He can see the aether around them dimming and his heartbeat quickens. He forces himself to be still as her hands reach for him, touch his robes, move to his mask, gently pull it away, and then, in a voice like a caress -

“My beautiful Hades.”

She’s in his arms one last time, warm and soft and so, so real. Her breath shudders against him as she fights the tears and there’s nothing he can do, nothing he can say…

“Stand tall,” she whispers. Their hands meet, fingers laced together. “Until we meet again.”

“You would wait so long?” An eternity.

“No less than you waited for me.”

He blinks back tears as the shock takes his breath away. He wants to stay, with all his heart he wishes he could - but they are almost out of time. He lets go of her hands and steps away, bending at the waist to drop into a bow as he twirls his hands with a flourish. She laughs as he’d hoped she would, and when he straightens he can see the tears on her cheeks, her hands curled into fists, the ghostly ribbons of aether fading, fading, _ gone… _

The feeling is strange, something beyond description - like being made of cotton, like he’s a vessel overflowing. He has seconds left, bare moments, he hopes he’s done enough, he hopes she’ll be strong, he hopes -

He meets her eyes, her bright, brown eyes, and sees her smile. It’s a gentle, loving, wonderful smile, and as the world fades into motes of brilliant, beautiful light he hears his name on her lips.

Matching her smile with his own, Emet-Selch scatters to the wind.

**

Slowly, carefully, the city regrows. Buildings resume their shape, trees reappear, roads become solid. The aether that was taken returns, guided by one who knows how, and Amaurot becomes the city it once was.

When the last piece is restored Mordant takes a deep, shaky breath. She is exhausted, mentally and physically drained - but proud, too.

She wishes he could see it.

Closing her eyes, silencing her thoughts, she focuses and teleports away.

**

He hears the door to his chamber open and close but does not turn around. There are books and papers strewn around him, histories and notes and an endless amount of dead-ends. The floor of his study is littered with weeks of research and reports; he himself is not in much better shape. “Any updates?” His voice is hoarse with disuse; it sounds harsh even to his ears.

“I’m sorry, G’raha Tia.”

He freezes. Not Lyna, reminding him to eat, or the Scions, bringing him news he doesn’t want to hear, or Moren, dropping another heavy tome on his desk in the hopes that _ this one _ may provide the answer he seeks. It is suddenly so hard to breath; is the feeling building in his chest a sob or a scream? Slowly he forces himself to stand, to slip between chair and desk, to turn around.

She has changed. Her skin is paler, her face thinner. The dark circles under her eyes are hollows, and the white streak in her hair is gone.

But her eyes - those warm, bright brown eyes - he’d know those eyes anywhere.

He lets out a breath of air he wasn’t aware he was holding. _“Mordant.”_ He takes a step towards her, half-worried that this is a dream, that she is a figment of his imagination. He is not sturdy on his feet; he’d run to her if he was confident his legs would carry him. “Are you…” _ Safe? Here to stay? Angry? Hurt? _ “Are you hungry?”

She blinks. She had clearly been expecting something different, but she gives him a hesitant smile. “I could eat - if you would like to join me.”

“I would like that very much.”

**

“We did not expect you!” The Manager of Suites at the Pendants shuffles his papers, hoping to find some note or memo he may have missed. “The Exarch said you’d returned home! Your room is available but it hasn’t been cleaned - if you don’t mind returning in an hour -”

She cuts him off with a wave of her hand, her easy smile taking away some of the brunt of it. “No, no - it’s fine. Truly. I only want a place to be by myself for a time. I won’t mind a little dust.”

He, perfectionist to the core, does not like this answer. He wrings his hands and shakes his head, but she’s already walking away.

Her room is much the same as it had been, though admittedly the dust that covers every surface is disheartening. The second chair at the table has been replaced; the ink spill cleaned from the floor. Her journal lies closed with a fresh bottle of ink beside it.

She goes to the window and opens the shutters. The sun has not yet set; the sky is a rainbow of golds, oranges, and purples. The view is breathtaking; the colours that bleed across the sky are a sight to behold in a world that only recently regained it’s night. Voices and laughter swell below her as the people of the Crystarium prepare to return home for the evening. Every day here is new, every person filled with hopes and dreams of their own making.

_ Don’t make a choice that leaves you alone. Nothing is worth that - especially not eternity. _

The Exarch sent word to the Scions of her return; she expects them to start trickling in to the Crystarium within the next few hours. She’ll have questions to answer, apologies to swear by, promises to make. She’ll be heartfelt through all of it: these are her best and greatest friends, companions who have seen her through everything.

_ Almost _ everything.

The voices in her head are quieter - not gone, but she’s begun to learn that they are an essential part of her. She is built of memories, of losses and sorrow along with celebration and joy. She cannot let herself fall into despair; she cannot let herself take that path. She owes it to everyone she could not save.

_ But what of the lost? Do they not deserve to live again? _

_ They do. In our hearts and our souls and our memories. You can’t obsess over the mistakes of the past, or you’ll lose sight of the future. Of the people still with us, who need us more than ever. _

There’s a knock at her door, a hurried, rushed rapping she bets belongs to one of the twins. A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth; though she knows she has earned the reprimands that await her, she’s already looking forward to what comes after. She casts one last look out the window, one last look west towards the sea.

No matter where Mordant is, her heart will always be in Amaurot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic started as a one-shot but then...well. The muse goes where she wishes! An infinite amount of gratitude to everyone who has read, commented, bookmarked, subscribed, and left kudos. Thank you!


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